


The guilty ones

by Carolineangel31



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awesome Molly Hooper, Drama & Romance, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Possessive Sherlock, Slow Burn, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-01-16 02:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18512062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolineangel31/pseuds/Carolineangel31
Summary: AU: Vikings"What do you want from me?" Molly asked, completely revolted by the presence of the man in front of her."All of you. Your devotion. Your body. Your loyalty." His voice held a sort of finality, as though he would not accept anything less than what he had just demanded."I am a conqueror and a collector. When one comes across true beauty, such as what you seem to posses, they never let that treasure go.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Hello. I'm back.  
> I hope you enjoy this new story.  
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.  
> A hug, have a good day

The village had been collateral damage—a necessary evil if Sherlock was going to obtain the crown that he knew he deserved. His army was legend, known as the Demons due to the unique blending of military tactics that they employed on the battlefield.  
  
As an expert of destruction the monstrous Viking loved a challenge, however this particular village had provided none. Sherlock's reputation preceded him and within moments of his arrival the men ran as far as they could, some with their wives and children, but most fled simply to save themselves. Some of the villagers had hidden, some decided to try their hand at bargaining, but only one fought—a girl that belonged to the name of Margaret.  
  
Being the gentleman that he was, the Viking had always ordered his men to never kill a woman, saying that if it were necessary that he himself would make the final call. So as Sherlock's men overpowered the female warrior, she fell prisoner to the most ruthless gentleman to ever invade England.  
  
As smoke from the burning village filled the air, a sense of celebration broke out among Sherlock's men; it was time to split the spoils. Some jewelry, silver, and gems, were laid out on a tattered rag, but none of these trivial items appealed to the leader of the group. Instead Sherlock made his way to a tent where the obvious sounds of a struggle were coming from.  
  
The woman's eyes grew wide when he entered the room, and she began to thrash even more violently against the restraints that were meant to hold her still.  
  
"Let. Me. Go. You have no right." She screeched at the Viking.  
  
Sherlock just chucked at her demand—this girl truly was exquisite.  
  
"I have every right, you should feel yourself lucky to have a temperate man such as myself come to your rescue." As he spoke his tone clearly conveyed just how much he was enjoying the situation.  
  
"Watching my home burn to the ground is hardly ideal." The woman spat out, venom dripping from every syllable she uttered.  
  
Sherlock's smile grew even wider. This girl was delightful, despite the damage she had caused his men he still wanted her around.  
  
"Tell me your name, love." He said, even though he already knew the answer. Sherlock wanted this girl to be willingly his, and if that meant playing a few games and exchanging pleasantries, then so be it.  
  
"A name is something you earn." The girl was in no mood to entertain whatever perverse fantasy she imagined her captor had playing out in his head at the moment.  
  
"Then please enlighten me, how can I acquit myself?"  
  
"Release me, allow me to find what is left of my home." Molly said simply, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.  
  
"Now why would I do that?" Sherlock asked, "I conquered your village and you are my prize, a victor never gives up his spoils." Sherlock's voice had a taunting edge to it that drove chills up Molly's spine.  
  
It was then that the pure hopelessness of the situation sunk in—her village lie in ruins and more than likely her virtue would be soon to follow suit.  
  
"What do you want from me?" she asked, completely revolted by the presence of the man in front of her.  
  
"All of you. Your devotion. Your body. Your loyalty." His voice held a sort of finality, as though he would not accept anything less than what he had just demanded.  
  
"I am not an object," Molly said, enraged by his arrogance. "I am not something that can be won or lost, and you cannot use me as you please." Something in the back of her mind told Molly that this wasn't exactly true. The man before her probably had no problem with taking whatever—whomever—he wanted.  
  
"My apologies love, you seem to be under the impression that I was going to give you a choice." Sherlock said, confirming Molly's suspicions.  
  
The girl's mind started to fly to all of the horrible things that she heard a man could do to a woman, causing Molly's heart to race and for her to once again thrash against the bondages that were now cutting into her circulation.  
  
"Don't worry sweetheart." Sherlock said, his voice softer, almost soothing, "All in good time, I won't take you until you are ready, but when I do I can assure you that the screams you utter will not be due to un-want.  
  
Molly's face grew hot at his words.  
  
"You—" Molly began but Sherlock cut her off.  
  
"Let me tell you how things are going to be little warrior. You and I will be spending a lot of time with one another over the next couple of months. You will be entirely dependent on me, that is not to say that you wont find pleasure in the experience if you so—" Now it was Molly's turn to interrupt him.  
  
"You are a disgusting, revolting, repulsive—"  
  
"Love, if you interrupt me again I may have to rethink just how easy your stay here is going to be." Sherlock said, no longer dealing with her nonsense. "I am a conqueror and a collector. When one comes across true beauty, such as what you seem to posses, they never let that treasure go. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
Sherlock extended a hand to wipe a curl out of her face. He leaned closer to her, and Molly could feel his breath hot against her neck.  
  
"Never forget, you are mine Molly." He whispered into her ear.  
  
With that he walked out of the tent, leaving Molly with only her thoughts to keep her company.


	2. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I'm back. OMG! I don´t even know what to say. I´m very happy with the comments of this story. Thank you all for being so kind.
> 
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.  
> A hug, have a good day

 

The amount of respect that Molly received was unexpected, especially considering she was technically a prisoner. The only thing that she wasn't entirely comfortable with were the sleeping arrangements—after her first few days with Sherlock's men, Sherlock informed her that the only room he'd permit her to sleep in was his own.  
  
Of course Molly wouldn't be a Hooper if she didn't try to resist, so that is exactly what she did. Every night, for almost a week, she went to sleep with all the blankets provided for her in a random tent that was not occupied by the men of the camp. Each night, however, she would awake in Sherlock's arms or in the arms of one of his minions while they moved her into his sleeping quarters. So Molly settled for sleeping like a well-trained dog far off in the corner, there was absolutely no way she would ever share a bed with a man while she was unmarried.  
  
At first Sherlock was content with this, assuming that the ground was uncomfortable and she would eventually give into him, but as time grew on he was introduced to just how stubborn this girl really was. He'd told her that he would much prefer if she joined him on the bed, when she scoffed he assured her that they would do nothing more than sleep. Molly would still have no part in it so he revoked her blanket privileges.  
  
Most nights Molly would do just fine without the extra warmth, but tonight was not one of them. Sherlock had left that morning, and since he had departed a horrible storm had overtaken the camp, it was loud and demanding as it whipped the tents and pressed on harder making going outside impossible.  
  
Molly eyed Sherlock's warm bed, he was the head of one of the most successful Viking groups she had ever seen, she knew that his bed would be soft, luxurious, and most importantly warm. Molly's fingers had long since lost feeling, and as her eye caught a glimpse of her own reflection in one of the silver treasures Sherlock had lying around, Molly realized that her lips were turning an alarming shade of blue. Not caring about the consequences she climbed into his bed.  
  
As the soft blankets lured her into sleep she didn't notice the sound of hooves in the distance.

* * *

  
It had been difficult, but Sherlock and his men made it back without any damage more than some minor cases of frostbite. As he walked towards his tent he regretted taking away Molly's blanket and grabbed a few extras to make sure that she wouldn't freeze to death.  
  
When he walked into his quarters, the first thing he noticed was that Molly wasn't sleeping on the makeshift bed she'd created for herself on the floor. Sherlock had given the men he stationed at camp strict orders not to let her leave his tent, and just as he was about to tear them to shreds he saw her.  
  
Lying with her hair surrounding her head like a halo, her lips were still slightly off colored from the cold. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised that the storm had driven her to his bed—something he himself had been quite unsuccessful on doing. Adding the extra blankets, because Molly looked as though she could use all the warmth she could get, Sherlock crawled into bed next to her and drifted off into a peaceful oblivion.  
  
When Molly awoke she felt warm and safe, feelings she hadn't been accustomed to for quite awhile. As she went to stretch she noticed the extra weight around her waist.  
  
The memories from the night before came back and as she opened her eyes her fears were confirmed. Her body was locked into place next to Sherlock as he unconsciously held her with an iron grip.  
  
Trying to slip out of his grasp before he woke she moved closer to him, hoping that she could then dodge out of his arm, unfortunately this had the opposite of the desirable effect.  
  
Within seconds Sherlock was awake and flipping them over so that his body hovered over hers.  
  
"If you wanted to be closer to me, all you would have had to do was ask, honey." Sherlock said, gazing lustfully down at the woman whom he'd come to think of as his greatest treasure—even if she found being in the same room as him disdainful.  
  
"I was trying to get as far away from you as I could." Molly said as she attempted push him off of her.  
  
Sherlock chuckled and traced his lips along her neck all the way to her ear where he whispered, "Then why is it that I found you in my bed, willingly without any coercion?"  
  
"I was cold." Molly said, hoping that the truth would be enough to get him off of her.  
  
"And here I thought you would rather freeze than share the same bed as me." Sherlock mussed as he brought his lips down to trace the curve of her neck.  
  
"Next time I will take that into consideration." She growled, once again making a feeble attempt to push him off of her.  
  
Sherlock lifted himself up to meet her eyes, "You don't truly think that there will be a next time? That after having you asleep in my arms that I would ever allow you to sleep on the floor?" Sherlock asked, getting that same possessive look in his eyes as he had when he'd originally told her that she was his prize—his possession.  
  
This time when he gave her that look it no longer brought fear to her heart, dread perhaps, but not fear. He'd kept his word of not taking her against her will, and as strange as it may seem, Molly believed him—almost trusted him.  
  
"If I agree to share this bed with you will you get off of me?" Molly asked.  
  
Sherlock smirked at her, "Of course." He said flipping them one final time so that she was on top and all of her weight was pressed against his chest, the sensation of her above him caused Sherlock to stifle a groan.  
  
As she pushed herself off his chest, Sherlock could tell she was trying to hide her blush. He watched every one of her movements, loving everything about her.  
  
"See you tonight, Molly." Sherlock called after her as she made her way out of the tent.  
  
The girl ducked her head unsure of what she had just gotten herself into, but surprisingly unafraid of what the outcome may be.

_**two days later.** _

In her life Molly had met many different kinds of men, and Sherlock was probably the strangest; he was a viking yet he never broke his word, even when there were times that Molly had definitely pushed him to the edge. His temper was almost as strong as his sense of pride; since Sherlock saw Molly as his—his object, his person, his tool—he would never allow any harm to come to her. Many men in the camp were not even allowed to be in her presence. Sherlock's craziness aside, Molly's involuntary time at the camp was relatively routine.  
  
Every morning she would awake in his arms and, although she would never admit this to anyone, it was almost pleasant having a warm body near her. When she opened her eyes Sherlock would let her slip away from his bed and she would go to begin her day.  
  
She had a plan, albeit a poorly crafted one, but still a plan. She would not simply sit around and wait for Sherlock to lose his head and lash out at her, Molly needed to escape his grasp and find what was left of her family and her home. She captive would sneak around the camp, collecting scraps of information and potential weapons. If Sherlock ever found out what she was doing Molly doubted she would see the light of day again, but it was a risk she was definitely willing to take.  
  
When dusk came over the camp a fire would be made, and if Molly remained inconspicuous she could hear great tales of monsters and triumphs; stories of long ago. The adventures these men had experienced caused Molly to grow envious; they all had the freedom to do whatever they pleased, whereas Molly would be reprimanded for simply wearing a pair of trousers or desiring a life of her own.  
  
It was late one night when she decided to gather collect the answers that she needed from the devil himself. She sat in front of the evening fire, it warmed her face and as pleasant as the feeling may have once been, it now only reminded her of her village—how her home had gone up in flames.  
  
While she was deep in thought, her target took the bait and sat beside her.  
  
"Care to tell me what plagues your mind, love?" Sherlock asked.  
  
If this were a normal night she would shoot him a glare and call it a day, but as of now she wanted something and if that meant using their relationship against him then so be it.  
  
"It is pretty up here." Molly said, hooking him into what she thought to be a seemingly innocent conversation.  
  
The viking, however, was not fooled. He'd been in the presence of Molly for quite some time and she was rarely kind to him unless she saw it to her advantage. That was one of the many things he admired about her—she was strong, knew how to take care of herself.  
  
"I fail to see how one as beautiful as yourself could dare call this landscape pretty. Surely, you make even the most vibrant sunset appear dull." Sherlock said playing along and bringing out his inner poet—a skill he learned while pillaging in France.  
  
Molly rolled her eyes, leave it to him to take such a mundane remark and turn it into a way to seduce her. "I simply meant that I do not mind spending time here." She said, getting closer to the question she really wanted an answer to.  
  
"I would expect so, you've probably spent the entirety of your life in a similar landscape given that the remains of your village are not far off."  
  
Molly sighed, this viking had all the tact of a deadly pack wolf. "I assume that you and your men will not be staying here forever…" she began hoping that he would fill in the blanks so that she wouldn't have to blatantly ask him what in God's name was going on.  
  
"I am afraid that I have answered this question many times before, sweetheart, we will not be leaving you behind." Sherlock was slightly irritated with where she was leading the conversation. How many times did he have to remind this girl that she was his and his alone?  
  
"Well at least tell me if we will be staying here much longer." Molly demanded. Trying to keep the smirk to herself, Sherlock had offered her an out.  
  
She knew he was not planning on letting her go, and perhaps he would have simply told her if she asked if they planned to be leaving the camp, but Molly's father was an army man for England, and she knew better. As of now Sherlock thought Molly entirely dependent on him with only the hopes of a knight in shining armor keeping her going, if he caught on to what she was planning his entire view of her would be changed. Molly could not afford for him to stand in the way of her plan; so, she took long detours dragging out conversation to gather intelligence, that way he would be unable to ascertain any sense or reason from her questions.  
  
Sherlock smirked and brought a hand up to guide her face to meet his gaze, "I'm afraid we will be leaving here before the rise of the next full moon." he said.  
  
Molly gave a heavy sigh; then what she heard must have been true. If they took her away from this place she would never return home—not that she had a home to return to.  
  
Sherlock brushed his hand down her arm, "Now on to a more mannered subject." He said.  
  
"Like how you plan to get me into your bed?" Molly challenged, upset after not receiving the answer she had hoped for.  
  
Sherlock chuckled, she was certainly in a saucy mood this evening. Good, two could play at that game.  
  
"Now correct me if I am wrong, but is it not under my sheets that you lay to rest every night?" he asked, a mischievous tint in his eye.  
  
Molly's face turned a shade of red that was uniquely her own.  
  
"You know as well as I that a peaceful sleep is not all you desire." she said, now avoiding his eyes. She'd heard of lewd flirtations, but she had never experienced anything of this sort before.  
  
"Care to test that theory?" He asked moving closer to her so that they were only inches apart.  
  
"No. You disgust me." She said, ignoring the part of her that knew better than to speak to a man in such a way.  
  
Molly had completely abandoned one of the crucial parts of the plan. She was supposed to play the docile woman who men always expected her to be. Back home being smart was almost punishable by death, for a woman who knew too much would be likely to find an ill-marriage. For this reason Molly was always second best, the men back home would tell her that she was beautiful, but they never wanted anything more than her physical state.  
  
No, only women like Molly's childhood friend Meena found good husbands. Only the obedient had the opportunity to find love; there had once been a time in Molly's life when she had tried to change herself, to become someone that a man would want. If she thought about it now, it seemed weak and pathetic, but back then all she wanted was to be wanted—that philosophy almost ruined her.  
  
Yet, knowing everything she knew about how to gain and keep a man's attention, why was it that when she acted like herself, who she really was, Sherlock seemed excited rather than repulsed?  
  
"What are you saying, Molly?" He asked, "If I were to touch you that you would feel nothing but bile rise in your throat?"  
  
Molly nodded, "You should consider yourself lucky, few have had such a strong effect on me." She was trying so hard to not become putty in his hands and to keep a grip on the sarcastic persona she had so confidently portrayed in their earlier interactions.  
  
Sherlock brought his hand up to trace the line of her jaw, "Now why is it that I have a hard time hearing any truth in your words, sweetheart?" She could hear the smirk in his voice.  
  
"Well, I guess we will have to agree to disagree." she murmured, ignoring just how wonderful his hands felt against her skin.  
  
"Tell me, Molly, what is it that keeps you from giving in to me?" Sherlock asked, going for the blunt and straightforward approach.  
  
"God." she blurted out, recalling the lessons she had as a child. Of all of the answers she could have given, this one seemed the most probable, Lord knows that her father had instilled enough bible-study in her that she could stall Sherlock for hours without him laying a hand on her.  
  
"Now that wasn't an answer I was expecting." Sherlock said drawing his hand back, stunned at the little piece of Molly Forbes he had just obtained.  
  
"It is against God's will to do...what you want us to do." Molly said, knowing it was a sound answer. Whether the reasoning was of any importance to her, well that remained to be seen.  
  
"Perhaps, but who needs marriage when you are already mine—I won you" Sherlock sounded very certain in this reasoning.  
  
Molly had had it with the way he seemed so keen on objectifying her. Everyone in her life had turned her into an object, treated her like something rather than someone, and although Sherlock may appreciate her qualities more than the others, that did not make him any better.  
  
"You may have won me," she said, allowing all of the anger she'd been feeling to rise within her, "but you have yet to prove that truly earned me."  
  
When Sherlock did not look as though he was going to give a witty remark Molly continued.  
  
"If you really want me, then show me your compassion, your mercy. Show me that you deserve me." She said as she got up and walked to his—their tent.  
  
Once Sherlock had regained his composure he would have chased after Molly immediately had it not been for some unwanted company.  
  
"She deserves better, you know." The man said crouching down next to Sherlock.  
  
"I would watch the way you speak to me, Gave, just because I do not have you in shackles does not mean you can speak to me as if we were mates."  
  
Although the village had not provided Sherlock a challenge, it did appear as though it had other uses. Greg Lestrade was one of them.  
  
The man was unbelievably skilled and ruthless on the battlefield, he probably would not have fallen victim to Sherlock's men had it not been for Greg's dark-haired older brother.  
  
Anderson. That was the man's name. Sherlock was just about to kill him when Greg struck the deal: Anderson's life for Greg's servitude.  
  
"I know, but I sat idly by and watched Molly get hurt once, I am not going to let that happen again." Greg said, forcing some conviction into his voice.  
  
Greg would have broke Molly free the first day, or at least gone to comfort her, had Sherlock not ordered the man not to go near Molly—claiming he would go back on the deal and kill both Lestrade brothers if Greg went within one-hundred feet of Molly. Lestrade plainly see that Molly was struggling, she may have been strong, but having to watch her home burn to the ground and being thrown around by a viking had obviously taken its toll on her.  
  
Sherlock paused for a second. He knew that the two had obviously been acquainted, the village had not been all that large, and it was from the Lestrade brother, or Gave as Sherlock had taken to calling him, that the viking knew anything about Molly at all.  
  
"Just watch your tongue before I feed it to you." Sherlock growled, leaving Greg behind so that he could join his Molly in their tent.  
  
When he entered the room he found Molly already fast asleep. In the past few days she had been calmer, more content—this led Sherlock to believe that she must be up to something. If what Greg was insinuating was true then his little light had a dark cloud swarming around her, and if the viking had learned anything in his years of destruction it was that a girl with a past was far too resourceful for their own good. In order to keep his lovely Molly, Sherlock would need to know everything about her, find a way to tie her down to him. Too many people in Sherlock's life had left him to rot, he would not be adding Molly to that list any time soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think of the chapter?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.  
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	3. Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Hello. I'm back.   
> I hope you enjoy this new story.

****  
The land was scarce as the Vikings packed up what was left of their camp, within a few hours the only evidence that they had been there at all would be the scorched ruins that lay in the distance.  
  
Molly knew it was only a matter of time before things went awry in the Viking camp, and if she didn't get away from them now then there would be no chance of her obtaining freedom ever again. Having grown up in the area, she knew this landscape better than the back of her own hand. It was in these woods that she'd gone to war for imaginary kingdoms with her childhood friends, and even Sherlock, with his vast skills in maneuvering through tough terrain, wouldn't be able to find her in her own domain.  
  
The only real problem Molly faced was how to break free of his iron grip. Sherlock was always watching her, his blue-eyed hawk gaze rarely straying from her slight frame when she was out of his tent. If the leader himself were not around then at least three different men would be tracking her every breath. There were only a few seconds scattered scarcely between shift changes that Molly would have any sort of time to herself in order to collect all the tools she would need. With meticulous planning and never-ending prayers, she finally wrapped up her plans and was ready to make her grand escape.  
  
On what she assumed would be her final day with Sherlock, Molly saw him over looking the land that he and his men had ruined. She stifled her smirk as she approached him—as of now her plan seemed to be falling effortlessly into place.  
  
"That field out there was once able to feed my entire village." She commented once she was standing next to him.  
  
"It is a shame that it had to be destroyed—it was definitely was sight to behold." Sherlock said, shamelessly looking over Molly's frame.  
  
Molly scoffed, "yes, because you are, as you said, a collector of beauty."  
  
"I have you don't I?" He asked, his eyes holding something genuine despite the smirk on his face.  
  
Molly hated when he referred to her as an object, but she bit her tongue to refrain from saying something to anger him and diminish her chances of escape.  
  
"Can I ask you a favor?" She asked, hoping to change the subject.  
  
"Depends on what you want love." Sherlock said, his eyes settling a little lower than where they should.  
  
"Could you walk me out there—to what's left of my village, so that I can say goodbye?" Molly said, feigning all of the innocence that had gotten her through life thus far.  
  
Sherlock looked skeptical. He knew she wouldn't be able to go anywhere, but his Molly didn't need another reason to resent him, and seeing her former home lying in ashes could end up pushing her even farther away.  
  
"Please," Molly whispered, "I'd do anything."  
  
Anything was an interesting word, Sherlock had often heard it escape the lips of a desperate man whose neck would soon be severed with a sword. Having Molly pleading and in his debt seemed too good to be true, so he accepted her terms before she could retract her words.  
  
Offering his arm to her in a mockingly gentleman-like fashion Sherlock led his lady towards what pieces were left of her village.  
  
They walked in silence, Molly's eyes scanning the places she had—just weeks before—seen children playing and running from the parents that tried to wrangle them in.  
  
When they reached the outskirts of what had once been her home, Molly held out her hand, brushing up against what was at one time a shelter from the cold. When she laid eyes on the house of her former best friend, Greg Lestrade, her knees grew weak.  
  
Molly had no idea where her childhood friend was, or whether he was even alive. When Sherlock's men collected the bodies that their swords had pierced, Molly was frantically trying to find Greg, but he was nowhere to be seen. She knew he was skilled in combat and a part of her wished that he had gotten out, away from the flames, away from the destruction, and away from all the heartache that had plagued him in their little village.  
  
"Something on you mind, love?" Sherlock asked, pulling Molly out of her dazed state.  
  
"Just an old friend." Molly said with a mournful tone.  
  
She wished that she could help Greg in some way, like he had when she'd lost one of her oldest friends, Mina. Molly was known for being resilient, but when Mina died she took a part of Molly with her. If it had not been for Greg there was no saying what Molly would have become.  
  
Sherlock, on the other hand, had gone through the entirety of his life without friends. In his world there were allies, family, and enemies, and no in-betweens or gray areas. As a great Viking, Sherlock had never felt the need for friendship, but the look on Molly's face as she recounted old memories almost convinced him otherwise, for no one have ever cared for him as much as Molly seemed to care for her fallen comrade.  
  
"They were there for me when I lost someone who meant the world to me." Molly elaborated, making her way around the home, hoping to see that some element of Greg had survived.  
  
"Something tells me you wouldn't need anyone's help to recover from a painful experience." Sherlock said leaning against what was left of one of the walls of Greg's home.  
  
"Well, then you obviously don't know how it feels to lose someone who was a part of you." Molly said turning her back to him so her eyes could survey the woods that were only yards away.  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure, sweetheart." Sherlock said, his tone going darker as he involuntarily remembered the day he lost his little sister.  
  
Turning around to meet his gaze, Molly was going to throw him a sarcastic remark until she saw the emotions in his eyes. He was wearing a look that still haunted her own face when she thought of the people she'd lost—it was the look of a survivor.  
  
"Who…" Molly began before she realized it wasn't her place to ask that question.  
  
"Not today, love. Some memories are best left forgotten." Sherlock said, trying to shove the images that were venturing towards his consciousness back into the corner of his brain that he never allowed to see the light of day.  
  
Not wanting to push him Molly nodded as she bent down to pick up what appeared to be a button from a man's shirt. Slipping it into the hem of her dress so that she could carry the spirit of the Lestrade family with her, she mumbled a quick prayer hoping that her plan would go off effortlessly.  
  
As though it were God's will the commotion she'd set up started in the camp, a series of flames set off by someone opening a meaningless tent. On a good day Molly would need thirty seconds to make the sprint to where the woods could conceal her, but the blonde knew she'd be lucky if she got half that time. The second Sherlock turned around she bolted.  
  
Trying to make as little noise as possible she ran with her lungs burning and her legs flying. Straight for the woods she went. Molly wouldn't have thought the speed she obtained humanly possible, but she made it to where the forest could hide her location without hearing Sherlock yell a single word.  
  
She dodged between trees; running erratically in hopes to throw him off if he was indeed following her. Molly had a destination in mind—a childhood fort that the children of her village used. In reality it was just a pile of sticks, it didn't look like much, but it was well concealed and it would be the safest place for Molly to catch her breath.  
  
When she saw the mossy pile of sticks, Molly almost fell to her knees in gratitude. Hiding herself within the cave that the fort created she planned her journey to a town that was about three days travel from her village.  
  
Once Sherlock's men gave up on her, as she knew they would, Molly would be able to move without fear. She had swiped enough bread and water to last her up to a week, and with any luck the tiny town would have gone untouched by Sherlock's men and she would have the opportunity to obtain whatever sort of normal life a girl in her situation could manage.  
  
As her heart slowed down to its normal pace, Molly closed her eyes. She was free—out of Sherlock's bed, his grasp, his sight. However it appeared as though her good fortune was to be short-lived, for while she was reveling in how wonderful the world had been to her, a man with a silent step crept up next to her.  
  
With the quickest movement he snatched her waist and put a hand over her mouth to stifle her screams.  
  
Molly thrashed violently against him, refusing to go back to a Vikings' camp without causing maximum damage to those who were dragging her back. Her captor turned Molly around and their eyes met.  
  
Her heart that had moments before been beating out of her chest froze still. He was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…   
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think of the chapter?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	4. The Devil You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.   
> I hope you like this new story  
> Thanks to all the people who have left a comment. I wrote the chapter, so I decided to publish it today.  
> And probably post again on Sunday. We'll see  
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.   
> A hug, have a good day

****

He was back. His eyes were just as menacingly heartless as they had ever been.  
  
"What do you want, Anderson." Molly choked out. She'd escaped Sherlock only to fall into the hands of someone worse—at least Sherlock had never tried to take full advantage of her, she could not say the same for Anderson.  
  
"I want my brother back." Anderson said, Molly wished she could say that the contempt that played across Anderson's features was unexpected, but to him she was moronic and useless.  
  
"I don't know where Greg is," Molly whispered in a broken voice, flinching as she realized this was not the answer Anderson was looking for. Having this ugly man so close brought Molly back to those day long ago, only this time there was no Greg to save her.  
  
"Doesn't matter." He growled, leave it to Molly to be the most incompetent hostage in the history of England during his time of need, "when I trade you to Sherlock in exchange for Greg, the viking will jump on the opportunity to have you in his clutches again, especially considering the damage you caused to his camp."  
  
Molly's mind was clouded with confusion. She had no idea that Greg was one of Sherlock's captives; She had been all over the camp and yet she had not seen a single sign signifying that her childhood friend was there. Of course, after the initial shock wore off, the fear settled in. Molly loved Greg, but she had no intention of ever returning to that Viking camp.  
  
"There has to be another way. Anderson, I can't go back there." Molly knew that the this man was heartless, but if there was even the tiniest chance that there was something human inside of him that could spare her, she had to take it.  
  
"It's nothing personal, but Greg is in there because of me, and I am going to be the one to get him out. No matter the cost."  
  
Molly was going to lose it. Her chances of escaping the first time were slim, if Sherlock ever caught her again they'd be nonexistent.  
  
"I barely got away this time, I won't have another chance if you send me back."  
  
Anderson barked a laugh and when Molly shot him a confused look, he seemed even more amused.  
  
"You didn't think your little trap would work did you?" When she opened her mouth to speak he cut her off. "You would need something bigger than a few sparks to distract someone who has been playing with fire their entire life."  
  
Molly swallowed, "What did you do, Anderson?"  
  
"I did what had to be done." Anderson said, tightening his grip on Molly's arm as the look of panic flooded her features.  
  
"Sherlock has a temper, what ever was holding him back before…" Molly stopped, the fear of what seemed inevitable overpowering every thought in her mind.  
  
_Ruin. Pain. Destruction_. Molly had experienced enough of those things in her life, and it seemed as though she would never be able to find a moment of peace.  
  
"I won't go back there, you can't make me." Molly kept her head high; she wanted to seem strong, even if her knees were growing weak.  
  
Anderson threw her a sardonic smirk, and raised his hands to Molly's throat—much like he had when they were courting. If she was talking too much and he wanted quiet, he'd apply a little pressure on her airway and she would be out cold. Closing her eyes, Molly waited for the darkness to take over, but when nothing happened she took a peek at Anderson.  
  
The fear must have clouded her senses, for Anderson was no longer touching her. Instead he was laying on the ground bleeding out of the back of his head, a blood covered rock not far off from him.  
  
Taking a deep breath, the confused and frightened girl was about to get as far away from the scene as possible when she crashed into a familiar chest. Looking up at her collision mate Molly sighed, "Greg."  
  
"It's good to see you, Molls." He said, pulling her into a friendly embrace.  
  
"Your brother—."  
  
"Will have a major headache when he wakes, but nothing he doesn't deserve." He said extending his arm, knowing that she would probably want to get as far away from Anderson as possible.  
  
As Greg led Molly out into the woods her heart was thumping so loud she was sure he could hear it.  
  
"Greg, you have to help me get away. Come with me, we can be free together." When the he began to shake his head she groaned, "Why not?"  
  
"Molls, you have to go back."  
  
Molly's eyes went wide. What horrible thing could Sherlock of possibly done to Greg that would turn her friend into a Viking sympathizer?  
  
"If I go back, they'll ruin me—or kill me, Anderson told me what he did." The panic was starting to settle in and breathing was becoming more and more difficult.  
  
"I know my brother's work when I see it, Molls," Greg said, trying to calm his neurotic friend down. "Sherlock won't blame you, I promise."  
  
"There's a town, just west of here Greg. I can have a normal life. Don't take that away from me."  
  
"That town is gone. Demolished. Even worse than this one."  
  
Molly shook her head, "Sherlock's men were coming from the East, they couldn't have had enough time to completely destroy it." Whether she was trying to convince herself or her friend, she wasn't entirely sure.  
  
Greg took a step forward, placing his hands on Molly's shoulders to hold her still, "Sherlock and his men aren't the only Vikings in the area, you need to go back to him. You know what they say, better the devil you know."  
  
"If you cared about my well-being, you wouldn't ask me to go back there."  
  
Greg Lestrade shook his head, "This is the only option."  
  
"Then I'm sorry." She whispered.  
  
Greg gave her a dumbstruck look, "sorry?"  
  
As children Molly knew all of Greg's weaknesses, and if she had to play dirty she could immobilize him long enough to run away.  
  
Keeping full focus on her need to escape the impending doom of a future with Sherlock, Molly grabbed the sensitive part behind Greg's neck and brought her knee up full force to meet his groin. When he crumpled to the ground in agony she bolted.  
  
Perhaps picking the most popular spot outside of town for children as her great hideout hadn't been the best of ideas considering she was found by two different men who were willing to hand her directly back to Sherlock.  
  
Any devil would be better than the one she faced in that camp. He was ruthless, aloof, seductive, but most terrifyingly, he was human. Molly could shove just about any monster under her bed, but she had never been able to turn her back on someone who was capable of being saved.  
  
There were moments, when Sherlock thought she couldn't see him or thought her unconscious, that she could see the fragments of what had perhaps at one time been a whole man.  
  
That was the worst part. When she heard him groan in pain whilst he slept she wanted to comfort him, to be there for him, but that would only harm her in the end. She'd seen the words engraved on his sword and she had no doubt they were scarred into his heart as well—he did not love, he did not feel, for love was a weakness. If she began to care for him, if she let him in, it would not only be her body and soul that would meet ruin, but her heart.  
  
Her mind was so distracted with thoughts of him that she didn't hear the footsteps that were creeping up behind her. When her lungs and legs couldn't take it anymore, she collapsed and her follower pounced.  
  
His arm wrapped around her waist bringing her to meet his frame. There was no room for escape, no room for air. Every inch of her was pressed up against her third potential captor of the day.  
  
"Well, love, it appears as though you're more resourceful than I thought." Sherlock whispered into her ear.  
  
And just like that Molly was trapped again, and if the pounding in Sherlock's chest and the anger in his voice were any indicator, this time around would be worse than the last.

****  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think of the chapter?  
> What should Sherlock do with Molly?  
> Should she be punished?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	5. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.  
> I'm back.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.  
> A hug, have a good day

"Well, love, it appears as though you're more resourceful than I thought." Sherlock whispered into her ear.  
  
For just a brief moment Molly had been able to taste true freedom. No Vikings, judgmental friends, or demanding fathers. She was just free, but like everything else in her life that she had once hoped for, it turned out to be nothing more than a false hope. Now there was not a single thing stopping Sherlock from taking full advantage of her, and as Molly felt him tighten his grip on her small frame she could feel the helplessness settle in.  
  
"I take it you didn't enjoy my parting gift?" She asked in a mocking tone as she made reference to the fire she'd started and that Anderson had made worse.  
  
"Burning down a man's home is not the way to get what you want, sweetheart." Sherlock said dragging his fingers along her arms. The tone in his voice made Molly very aware of just what he was insinuating could make him do whatever she wanted.  
  
Despite the rather lewd subtext, the double standard of his words was not lost on Molly.  
  
"I'll be sure to be more considerate when escaping next time."  
  
"There will not be a next time, Molly. You tried and failed, now you must accept the consequences of your actions." Sherlock's tone did nothing to mask his anger.  
  
Molly scoffed, "I will never stop trying to get away from you."  
  
Sherlock spun her around and from the look in his eyes Molly knew she had gone too far.  
  
"You need to be honest with yourself, love." He said, trying to regain his composure.  
  
Molly glared at him as she tried to calm her breathing. From her position tucked against his chest, she couldn't quite make eye contact, but she believed that Sherlock received the message when she tried to knee him in the groin as she had Greg.  
  
"Talk plain with me, Sherlock." Molly snapped, done with his nonsensical riddles.  
  
Bringing his hand to settle on her lower back, Sherlock smirked as he felt Molly's body shiver in reaction to his touch.  
  
"You desire me. Perhaps not as much as I do you, but it's there."  
  
Molly froze, then sending him a condescending look said in the coldest voice she could manage, "I could never want you."  
  
Something flickered across his features, and for a moment Molly felt guilty for what she had just said.  
  
Sherlock seemed genuinely upset that she had made a move against him. Her setting a few of his tents ablaze was, to him, an unspeakable crime—but what about her home? He would walk away with what he cared about still intact. Everything that Molly loved was gone: the safety of her home, the people of her village, all she had left was ashes. Sherlock even managed to steal away her best friend, Greg, a man who had once been willing to betray his own family to save her, was now trying to sell her to the devil.  
  
As she thought about everything she'd lost, whatever calm Molly had left was destroyed. She thrashed against Sherlock's hold with a strength she did not think herself capable of. She yelled and screamed, calling him a monster and a hypocrite, but none of it seemed to faze the man. If the suspicious pressure on her lower half was any indicator, he enjoyed her defiance—and his pleasure was enough to make Molly fight even harder.  
  
When he thought that he might lose hold of her, he surged forward and manipulated her so that her back was pressed against the tree and her front against his chest.  
  
His breath was heavy and Molly could feel it against her neck. In the depths of his blue eyes, Molly could see a swarm of emotions in his eyes. There was the obvious rage which was mixed with a spark of excitement that made Molly's skin shiver—in what she assumed to be disgust—but further below the surface there was something that made her blood run cold.  
  
Betrayal. Sherlock felt betrayed by her actions, her self-preservation had somehow struck a chord in his heart. Molly was unsure if she should be enraged by his possessive qualities or saddened that a prisoner trying to escape could cause emotional damage to a man. She wanted so badly to scream at him for the audacity of thinking that there was some sort of understanding between them that she would never leave him—that he had some sort of claim over her, but she couldn't. What kind of life could he have led to put himself in a position in which someone whom he treated as an object could harm his heart?  
  
Whether she liked it or not, it appeared as though Molly may just be staying with him long enough to discover the tale behind the Viking. With his body trapping hers against the trunk of the tree, and his eyes roaming her frame like a deprived animal, there was no hint of him ever letting her go again.  
  
Sherlock smirked, tracing his hand across her neck.  
  
"Wondering what's in your future are we, love?"  
  
Molly scoffed and rolled her eyes as she swallowed the lump in her throat.  
  
"Nope, just planning the route for my next great escape." She said.  
  
Sherlock laughed and brought his finger to brush against the top of the curvature of her breast.  
  
"I think we both know that you won't be going anywhere for a rather long time."  
  
Molly avoided his gaze. He was right, of course. She knew that her fate was sealed the second his arms wrapped around her waist. She was damned to a life as his prize from a battle well won, but that did not mean she couldn't put on a brave front.  
  
Pulling herself to as much of her full height as she could manage against the tree, Molly said, "Whatever you're going to do, Sherlock, just get it over with. It's impolite to keep a lady waiting."  
  
Sherlock smiled. His Molly was strong until the end. She thought her world was coming to a close, and yet she stood tall, making witty remarks and trying to keep her defenses against him up.  
  
"Where's the fun in that?" He brought his hand to meet her cheek, caressing her face he added, "Your torture is going to be slow. That, love, I can guarantee you."  
  
Molly's blood ran cold and her heart stilled. He was being honest with her and that was more terrifying than any lie.  
  
Not another word would escape Molly's lips for hours. Sherlock would lead her away, with her resolve defeated she didn't pose much of an opponent against the iron grip he had on her arm. The Viking dragged her along like a petulant child, and forced her back into her doom—his camp.  
  
Molly's felt a stab of guilt as she laid eyes on the destruction that had ensued because of her. The ground was covered in charred remains. Anything that was on the eastern side of the camp was destroyed, and the blonde had no doubt that any man who was in the way would have been, at the very least, severely injured.  
  
The guilt did not go away as Sherlock led her to his tent. Molly knew she had every right to reach for her best chance at a life outside of this purgatory, but since she was once again a caged bird, was it really worth it? Anderson had taken her escape too far; it was his fault that the potential of people who were hurt had grown. No matter the situation Molly would never trade the lives of others for her own convenience—that wasn't who she was.  
  
When they came to Sherlock's tent, he threw Molly carelessly on the bed, reminding her of the prisoner that she was. Crawling on top of her with a devilish look in his eyes, Molly thought her heart was going to collapse.  
  
He looked at her as though she was the cure for all of his ailments. As though a kiss from her could solve any problem that the world had to offer.  
  
Just when she thought he was going to begin the process of ruining her innocence, he moved swiftly and chained her left wrist to the headboard of his bed.  
  
Molly threw him an exasperated look, "You don't think I learned my lesson?" She demanded.  
  
"Not yet." Sherlock smirked. "Think of it this way, if anyone else caused half the damage that you have, they'd be dead. Consider this a blessing."  
  
Molly snorted and sent a glare his way, but Sherlock was already heading back out to the camp to do God knows what.  
  
The Viking was drifting through the remains of his camp in the strangest of moods. On one hand Molly had destroyed parts of what he had worked so hard to achieve, and on the other she was, once again, tucked away safely within his reach. He got to see the full extent of her fire, and he was more intrigued than he ever had been, and now that her plans were foiled she would not try to leave him again. Sherlock saw this as a win; after all, what was a victory without a few casualties?  
  
Going to search for the new addition to his collection, Sherlock caught eyes with Greg as he made his way to Molly. The man had asked if he could clear things up with her, and Sherlock didn't see any harm in it. Especially after their interaction in the woods, Sherlock felt no threat from Greg in regards to who would win Molly's romantic affections.  
  
The Viking could imagine his little woman was in quite the precarious position. Soon she would be truly alone, and after she faced the horrid truth she would become completely his. Molly would not escape her fate, she would belong to Sherlock if it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.  
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	6. 7: Chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.  
> I'm back.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.  
> A hug, have a good day

****  
There was a certain kind of shame that came with failure. It was a cruel and unusual kind of feeling, mixed with the embarrassment of a thwarted attempt and the crushed hopes of a better tomorrow. As Molly sat chained to a monster's bed she wondered if she would ever feel right enough with herself to move past her horrid circumstances. How could she become the woman who her father would have expected her to be, if she was meant to be nothing more than a mere toy to a man who had no regard for her future?  
  
There were too many demons in this camp. Lewd temptations, smirk filled vikings, and now memories of Anderson—a man for whom there were no words loathsome enough to describe—were mocking her at every corner. Not too long ago Molly had a bright future ahead of her: a hope to find some sort of love in her life, and now the only things she had were shame, fear, and the sting of betrayal.  
  
In her other life, as Molly had now become accustomed to calling it, she would have bet all she had that Greg would do anything to save her; however, it was now clear that Molly was completely and utterly wrong. She was nothing to him. There was once a time when Greg had chosen the girl over his own brother, but now he was throwing her into the lion's den without so much as a parting glance.  
  
As the tent's flap moved, Molly sighed. Think of the devil and he shall appear.  
  
"Molly," Greg said, his eyes clouded with remorse as he looked at the locked up girl before him.  
  
"Go away." Molly held her tears back as she looked away from the traitor.  
  
"Let me explain—"  
  
"No. You don't get to relieve your guilt. Get away from me now before I start to scream. In case you haven't noticed, Sherlock is quite possessive of me, he would not like you stepping in on his territory."  
  
The bitter truth and venom behind Molly's words nearly brought Greg to his knees. He knew that by trading Molly's life for another's there was a chance that his longest childhood friend would not forgive him, but it was a risk that—at the time—he felt he needed to take.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Molly." Greg sat on the bed, glaring at the chains that were holding his friend in place like an animal.  
  
"I don't want to see you right now." Molly whispered. She was already moments away from breaking down, and the last thing she needed was for Sherlock to walk in and think her weaker than he already did.  
  
"Please, Molly, there is so much more to this story than you know." The man's pleas fell on deaf ears.  
  
"What I know, Greg, is that you were supposed to be the one who was there for me no matter what." Molly's voice got louder as she continued on, "when everyone else turned their backs on me you were always there, but when I need you the most you practically stick the dagger in my chest. I want to forgive you because you're my best friend and I need you now more than ever, but I can't, and it's tearing me apart inside."  
  
"Molls, just look into my eyes. Tell me that I'm not the same guy that tripped the other children in the field so you could win the race."  
  
She brought her eyes to meet his gaze, and it was then that she saw it. She should have known, even to Greg she would always be second best when it came to love.  
  
"This is about Sally." It wasn't a question.  
  
"Isn't it always?" Greg asked, hiding his discomfort behind a melancholy laugh. He should have known that Molly would read him like an open book, she always did.  
  
"Not for me, no." Molly said, feeling nothing but bitterness towards the girl who was one of her best friends. Saint Sally, as some had taken to calling her, never seemed to get the shortest end of the stick.  
  
"This is bigger than you and me, Sherlock said—"  
  
"Sherlock is a liar, a manipulator, and he is the least trustworthy man on the planet. Yet, you sacrificed my future, because of something he said about the girl you love, who may I remind you, also fell in love with Anderson?"  
  
Greg knew his friend was outraged, but she wasn't truly listening to what he had to say. There was still hope for him, and all he needed to do was stay in the fire a little longer. Perhaps Molly didn't understand, but that would change. She had just yet to experience the kind of love he had with Sally. One day she would look back and it would be with understanding—even if that day was far from this one.  
  
As Greg droned on with his apologies, Molly began to tune him out. She doubted he would tell her anything consequential, he would just go on about how big a role love played in his life. There may have been a time when Molly wanted nothing more than for Greg and Sally to be together, but Sally no longer deserved someone as wonderful as him. It was a shame that Greg was so unaware of the simple truths, that boy's blinded devotion to his girl would get him killed.  
  
Whilst Molly was lost in thought and Greg lost in an apologetic state, another unwanted visitor joined them in the tent. His shirt was stained with splatters of blood, his hair was a mess, and his gaze was deadly—Sherlock looked more dangerous in that second than she had ever seen him.  
  
Molly had never been more fearful of what he might do to her than she was in that moment. Unable to defend herself, she awaited his lashes—be they verbal or physical. Mentally cursing Greg for ducking out when he saw the Viking approach, Molly kept her gaze low.  
  
"I just had a lovely chat with your friend, Anderson."  
  
Molly flinched as unwanted memories came running back.  
  
"He seems to equate you with the common whore." Sherlock spat, stalking around what little room the tent provided.  
  
Molly could feel the bile rise and the tears trying to fight their way out. There was no denying that she wasn't always as strong a woman as she was now. Anderson had used her, and while she had escaped with her physical innocence intact, a few moments later and she would have been ruined for good.Anderson had never been silent about what had transpired between them. Had it not been for Greg's reassurance to the townspeople that Anderson's words, while based on truth, were laced with lies, Molly would have become a pariah.  
  
She expected Sherlock to lash out at her, to take her against her will. After all whores were not in any position to refuse anyone. To her surprise it was not an assault that she felt, but rather the unlocking of the chains that were holding her in place.  
  
When Molly met his gaze, Sherlock's eyes were filled with something she never would have expected from him: understanding.  
  
Taking her face in his hands, Sherlock made sure she was looking at him and only him, "don't let anyone talk so low of you ever again, do you understand?"  
  
When she nodded he crawled beside her. Molly could smell the alcohol and the blood, but as his arm fixed securely on her waist to hold her in place, she was chained to him in a strangely comfortable silence.  
  
"Sleep, love." Sherlock whispered, "tomorrow you'll see what it truly means to be a viking."  
  
Despite the softness in his voice, Molly felt like she had no chance of sleep. Her mind was racing due to Sherlock's quick change of emotions. How could she expect to survive when this man was so hard to read? The hope of her leaving his embrace unscathed seemed to be dwindling.  
  
But while Molly's mind was running through all of the things that had happened in the past few hours, she knew nothing of the wide awake viking by her side. Secrets were eating away at his insides, and even he was surprised at the cruelty that lied behind the most simplistic aspects of human nature. The newest prisoner to grace his camp had proven to be anything but a tight-lipped man, and the stories he shared starred none other than the little bird that Sherlock was now holding close to his chest. How could someone so pure be put through so much? The viking would not have believed the tales had he not seen first hand what this, Anderson, was capable of. What a delusional world Greg and Molly were living in to think that he, Sherlock Holmes, was the most dastardly villain that they had yet to face.

 

* * *

**  
  
**With a gasp Sherlock awoke, his body shaking from the demons of his past that had forced him to relive the memories of a childhood he strove to forget. Memories could be a person's downfall or they could become their strength. Though the Viking would like to believe the latter, and think that he had risen above the horrors inflicted upon him at his father's hand, it was nights like tonight that he was unsure.  
  
It was always the same. Triggers came in all shapes and sizes, from the screams of a woman as Sherlock forced her out of her home, to the cruelty he saw as he traveled from east to west and back again. In this case the trigger came in the form of Anderson.  
  
Looking down at the woman who lay beside him, Sherlock wondered if he could ever bring himself to harm her. Molly was so pure, her light was a beacon that could bring him to shore, but even she held secrets—secrets that protected her from the memories she wished to forget.  
  
Molly was strong, and now Sherlock knew why. When a bone breaks it comes back better than before, and after what Anderson had put Molly through she had been completely shattered, allowing her to regrow into a better version of herself.  
  
As the anger that Sherlock had felt towards Anderson resurfaced he took his leave of the tent to walk around the camp, grumbling as he passed the place where Lestrade was recovering from his extensive injuries.  
  
Sherlock was unsure of the extent the man had hurt Molly, but as the memories came back from the night before the Viking knew he had a pretty good idea.  
  
"Word around the camp is that you've taken quite the liking to a certain pretty whore."  
  
Anderson's voice had a constant mocking edge to it, at first he was easy to ignore.  
  
"You'll love the way she screams—I bet she's even louder when it's from pleasure instead of pain."  
  
That one comment opened the floodgate, and Sherlock lost it, attacking Anderson with a power he had not known himself capable of.  
  
As the Viking beat Anderson into oblivion he saw red. There was no rhyme or reason to Sherlock's lashes; he just wanted to bring harm to the smirking man. No one could hurt what was his—and if Sherlock knew anything it was that Molly now belonged to him.  
  
The words that Anderson had spoken were dancing around in Sherlock's mind.  
  
"She's real easy. You can manipulate her to be exactly the puppet you need her to be. She's a ton of fun, I bet—" Anderson hadn't been able to finish that thought due to Sherlock's fist making a connection with the man's face.  
  
It disturbed Sherlock to think of how little Anderson thought of Molly's worth, "imagine her face when I told her I wouldn't take her—that she wasn't worth it. Sleeping with a needy virgin was definitely not on my list of things to do."  
  
The man treated her like she was nothing but a pass time. "The thing you need to remember about Molly is that she's shallow, worthless, and not all that bright. You could find far more entertaining women on the streets, cheaper too."  
  
Anderson's commentary was endless. Several pints of the man's blood and two bottles of alcohol later, Sherlock was drunk and desperately in need of his Molly.  
  
Imagining her cringing at the hand of Anderson, seeing her in his mind's eye as broken as Eurus had been every time James got a little too rough, was destroying him from the inside. Luckily both Eurus and Molly had survived their trauma, but Sherlock knew plenty of cases where women were beaten to their death for trivial mistakes.  
  
What would he have done if his Molly had been pushed out of this world before he had the chance to claim her as his own? One thing was for certain, no man would ever lay their hand on her again, and she'd be lucky if she was allowed to walk beyond their tent without his company.  
  
As Sherlock walked back towards where he'd come from, he realized that Molly was not alone—perched next to her was an exhausted Greg Lestrade.  
  
From the outside of the tent Sherlock could hear Greg murmuring his apologies, practicing his words, declaring his love for his friend. When the boy began to stroke her hair was when Sherlock had had enough.  
  
"What are you doing in here?" he growled.  
  
"Checking on Molly, making sure you didn't do anything to her." Greg said, sticking up his chin defensively.  
  
"Yes, because you protected her so well when Anderson was in my place." It was a low blow, but after the night Sherlock had experienced he deserved to take out his frustrations on the first person he saw.  
  
"That was a long time ago." Greg choked out, surprised Sherlock knew anything about what had transpired between Anderson and Molly.  
  
"Some scars don't heal, George." Judging by his tone, if Greg didn't know better he would say that Sherlock cared for the girl he was holding against her will.  
  
"You know nothing of what happened then, you have no right to say anything about that time in her life."  
  
"Ah, but I do. If there is one thing I will not tolerate it's a self-righteous hero whom is no better than the people he looks down upon."  
  
"I saved Molly in the end. That's all that matters." There he was, trying to rationalize his actions.  
  
"Perhaps, but did you save the love of your life. What was her name—Samara?"  
  
"Sally." Greg whispered.  
  
"Tell me, where is this girl, the one you would do anything for."  
  
"I don't know." The man seemed so defeated, Sherlock most felt sorry for him.  
  
****" Some white knight you are."  
  
Greg was so certain that Sherlock knew where Sally was it made his blood boil. She could be suffering—scared out of her mind and here Sherlock was using her as a tactic to bully him.  
  
"Tell me where she is!" Greg yelled causing Molly to wake with a start.  
  
"I think that is quite enough for one night, George." The look Sherlock gave him would have been enough to stop the devil in his tracks.  
  
Whilst Greg exited the tent Molly shot Sherlock a questioning look. The Viking shook his head, and moved to lie beside his girl.  
  
Too tired to put up a fight, Molly allowed him to cradle her in his arms as she went back to sleep. This girl was different from all the other women who had warmed his bed, somehow Sherlock had allowed himself to become attached to her, but his secrets would surely tear them apart.  
  
For now the truth would have to remain dormant, after all how was Sherlock supposed to keep Greg within his grasp if the Salvatore knew that the love of his life had taken her last breath and was buried in a shallow grave, hiding as yet another secret that Sherlock would have to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.  
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	7. For her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Hello. I'm back.  
> I hope you enjoy this new story.  
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.  
> A hug, have a good day

Pretending was something Molly had become rather good at over the past couple of years. Her life had been far from perfect, but she was content in the happiness she found in bringing joy to others. That was why she had pursued Anderson. After all, Molly's mother and father both agreed that a man like Anderson was exactly what she needed, so the naïve woman went along with what was expected of her. Molly's self-esteem had never been high, and Anderson was there at a time in her life when all she wanted was to feel loved.  
  
The abuse hadn't started until after Sally officially chose Greg. It started with small comments, things about Molly's size, her weight, her appearance. In the beginning she thought little of it, the summer had given them a plentiful harvest making it entirely plausible that she had gained some weight.  
  
When Greg proposed marriage was when Anderson started drinking. On some level perhaps Molly would have been able to sympathize with him, the pain of a love unrequited could drive a person to say crazy things, but when Anderson saw that his words were not getting the desired effect, that was when he decided to use his fists.  
  
It was strange the level of dependency a person could feel towards their abuser. Every hit, kick, and even bite had been her fault. She was the one who walked on the wrong side of him, the one who laughed too loudly at another man's joke. It was her fault that he had to become a monster.  
  
Even as the bruises faded and the bleeding stopped, the words would stick around to cause chaos in her mind. Eventually Anderson stopped hitting her and, as wrong as it may seem, that left a void in her. She needed to feel the pain that she caused the man she thought she loved just by being with him. It was her fault Anderson was this beast, she thought he loved her, and the guilt was eating away at what was left of her psyche. So Molly took out the confusion and anguish she felt towards her situation on herself.  
  
That was when Greg found out. Molly wasn't as skilled when it came to placing her wounds as Anderson had been. Greg showed her that she was someone who deserved better, someone who had a life to lead—something she couldn't do with Anderson by her side.  
  
Her parents hadn't believed her. Anderson was a saint in their eyes, impervious to any evil. It took nearly a year, but eventually Molly came back to herself, though she was never exactly the same.  
  
After a while, pretending to be strong for the ones she loved turned into a desire not to be weak. Molly never wanted to be the victim, but she couldn't change the way her life had turned out, all she could do was grow from the pain it had caused. That was when she asked Greg to teach her how to fight. She never wanted to be taken advantage of again, and if she could protect herself then she would have a say in the road her future took.  
  
All of those hours—fighting, preparing, hoping for something better, they all meant nothing. Here she was trapped with nowhere to go and Greg couldn't—wouldn't—save her this time.  
  
Sherlock's unwelcome advances towards her were slowing, but that only made her confusion increase. One moment he was as evil as the devil incarnate and the next he was holding her close like a child does their blanket. He was infuriating and unpredictable, which was exactly what Molly didn't need.  
  
For now he was sleeping off a night of heavy drinking and, from the look of the blood spatters on his shirt, violent antics. Stepping out into the world from the isolated tent, Molly could see the sun rising in the distance, signifying new beginnings. Would she ever get one of those?  
  
A grimy hand came over her mouth and pulled her behind a nearby tree. Being kidnapped and attacked was really starting to lose its shock value, but Molly still fought with every muscle she had in her disposal.  
  
"Shh, I'm here to help" The man said, strangely irritated considering he had just assaulted her. He had broad shoulders and dark sandy hair; Molly recalled seeing him hanging around with Anderson a few times.  
  
"My name is John, and right now you and I have much in common."  
  
Molly blinked at the man and brought her arms up to hug her waist.  
  
"What do you want? There is nothing I can offer you." Right now the last thing she needed was to push Sherlock even farther. Anderson had supplied an outlet for his fury, but if she were to do another thing to enrage him she feared his reaction would be even more unsavory than it was before.  
  
"You'd be surprised just how helpful a pair of ears in the right circumstance can be." John said stepping back to survey their surroundings—making sure that no one could hear their conversation.  
  
"I just want to survive this." Molly whispered.  
  
"What if I told you I can get you out?" Molly perked up at the thought. She may be a capable woman, but she was no match for a group of men who based their entire lives around the Viking lifestyle.  
  
"What would I have to do?"  
  
"Play a part."  
  
Wasn't that what she was doing? Playing the docile victim. What more could this man, John, expect from her?  
  
Seeing her confusion he continued, "get close to him. Gain his trust. Sherlock has never taken such an interest in one of his women, you have a unique opportunity to bring him to his knees."  
  
Molly didn't want to hurt anyone, if she harmed Sherlock, or any of his men, how could she distinguish herself from their evil? She could never set out under the pretense of causing damage without a worthy cause—it just wasn't in her nature.  
  
"I don't want to hurt anyone." She said, keeping her head high.  
  
"You think Sherlock has a problem with causing pain. With killing the innocent?"  
  
Molly cringed, she knew Sherlock was capable of such things, but seeing him as a killer only made it harder to pretend he didn't scare her half to death.  
  
"I'm not asking you to plunge a dagger into his heart, all I want is information. To warn the villagers in the towns he hopes to ransack."  
  
"I can't be your informant forever."  
  
"You won't be, you just have to wait until Sherlock picks the wrong group of people to victimize."  
  
Running her hands through her hair Molly felt the distress set in. Right now she was a caged bird about to have her wings clipped, but if she stood against Sherlock so soon after her last failed attempt, flying might be the least of her worries.  
  
"How do I know I can trust you?" She wasn't about to put her life on the line for a man she hardly knew, not without good reason.  
  
"Holmes took something from me, and sometimes the best alliances are formed from common enemies." He said, smirking up at the sky. "What do you say, Molly?"  
  
Looking into his eyes, Molly could see all of the things John kept bubbling beneath the surface: rage, betrayal, grief, despair, and just a tint of crazy. Jumping from one mad man to another wasn't the most desirable of situations, but as the thought of being a prisoner for the rest of her life crept up, Molly knew it was a chance she'd have to take.

 

* * *

 

  
Hope was the most debilitating villain Molly had ever encountered. When she'd first made John's acquaintance the girl assumed that in a few weeks John would have gotten his revenge and she'd be free.  
  
Unfortunately, Molly couldn't have been more wrong. While she may have been living up to her end of the bargain—initiating conversation and contact with her captor—John was most definitely shrinking from his responsibilities.  
  
Every night Molly spent a prisoner her heart grew heavier. Sherlock tried to spin the story, tell her it was better this way. A woman such as herself could never survive in the cruel world alone. She needed him. He was so caught up in his own world he hadn't seen how wrong he was.  
  
Being in Sherlock's clutches wasn't saving her, but rather destroying everything she once stood for. She wanted to be free, independent, able to choose her own path, but none of that could happen as she spent each night placating a Viking.  
  
Molly supposed her life could have turned out worse. She'd heard tales of women being taken against their will, and she was blessed that the lord had not yet allowed such a thing to happen to her. Perhaps Anderson might have done it, had he not seen her as so pathetic and unworthy of his attentions.  
  
It was unexplainable the impact the eldest Lestrade's words still had on her. When unwillingly tucked into Sherlock's embrace it was all Molly could think about: how she would never be a respectable woman with an honorable husband living an average life. All she'd ever wanted was to feel loved, something she'd never gotten from her parents or her friends—yet, this was the life the world had in store for her.  
  
Listening to hostile takeovers, the moans of whores as Sherlock's men took their pleasure from the women they found on the streets, and the unyielding cries of the Vikings' victims, was so unsettling that not even the constancy of the star overhead could calm Molly. She needed for Sherlock to let her go, but if she brought it up, he was no longer offended by it, but rather laughed it off as a joke.  
  
"What would you do with your freedom?" He'd asked one night, genuinely curious.  
  
"I don't know, I've never really had it." She'd mused, thinking back to a comment her mother had made when she was little about women being slaves to society.  
  
"Well, then what could you possibly want it for? You can't desire something you never had." The smirk on his face would have been enough to drive Molly to murder had it not been for her extreme disadvantage.  
  
"Can't I? Isn't it human nature to want a better life?" The spark that arose in her eyes when she was passionate about something was thrilling to Sherlock—one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen.  
  
"Your life is fine, sweetheart. You're protected, fed, and you know that I would never hurt you."  
  
It was when he said things like that that Molly began to wonder if he truly was mentally impaired.  
  
In what world aren't you hurting me, she wanted to yell, how can you justify keeping me around like a cow you intend to slaughter? Why is my life worth so little that you can bend it for your convenience?  
  
But since those words would most likely get her killed she'd simple mumbled, "I know," and dropped the conversation before he inevitably lashed out at her.  
  
Yet, as hard as it may have been to wait for a better life, it wasn't the main reason she wanted to get out. There was something more to Sherlock than the Viking who killed and terrorized villagers. There was a man. He was broken and battered, but most importantly he was human.  
  
That was the worst part, for it is easy to despise the devil but it's difficult to hate a sinner. To know that something had happened in Sherlock's life that could twist him and mold him into the kind of man who could not only perform the actions that he did, but justify them, made Molly lose what little faith she had in the good of humanity.  
  
How was she supposed to hate Sherlock when she saw the scars upon his back, marks similar to the ones she'd seen on the people in her village who had been whipped for their crimes? Molly could despise what he'd done all day long, and although she couldn't forgive him for the position he'd put her in, she no longer loathed him unconditionally. The girl was seeing the man being the monster, and it was terrifying.  
  
That was why at her next meeting with John she refused to tell him any of the gossip she'd gathered before she knew his plan.  
  
"I can't do this anymore, John, I need out." She'd said it almost every time they'd seen one another but this time the desperation in her voice was overwhelming.  
  
"Good things—"  
  
"Come to those who wait, I know. Stop trying to stall me and tell me the plan." Molly said, stomping her foot like a petulant child.  
  
"If we don't wait until the time is right you won't have to worry about your freedom, but rather your life."  
  
He was cryptic and vague, which were both tactics Anderson had used when trying to manipulate Molly. From experience the blonde knew that when offered few details her mind would try to fill in the blanks, and often her imagination landed her far from the truth.  
  
"I get that you're angry, Sherlock 'took something from you,' but that doesn't mean I can be your, your minion forever."'  
  
"My wife." John grumbled, knowing that he'd have to tell her this story eventually, but he was hoping for later rather than sooner.  
  
"I'm sorry?" Molly asked, confused.  
  
"Are you going to talk the whole way through, or are you going to listen to what I'm about to tell you?"  
  
When she opened her mouth to agree to be quiet, John gave her a look that could send chills down even Satan's spine.  
  
"My wife," he began again looking anywhere but at the woman in front of him, "was the most resilient person I ever knew. She went through hard times as a young girl, but eventually she overcame. I loved her, she was my other half."  
  
He stopped for a long while searching the trees above for some sort of answer. Just when Molly thought he wasn't going to start again he continued.  
  
"In the last few months of our marriage, Mary grew distant. She started working more and sleeping less. She grew restless, and just when I thought things were going to get better, Sherlock and his men pillaged our village."  
  
When John finally brought his eyes to meet her's they were cold and empty.  
  
"I lost the only woman I could ever love that day."  
  
"What—?" Molly began, forgetting her unspoken promise of silence.  
  
"A man managed to tell me before he died that my Mary had run in the company of a woman. She managed to escape but Sherlock's men caught her near your village… All I had was a name, Sally, and eventually I was led to your village, but it was too late."  
  
Molly let out an audible gasp, John's words came crashing down on her.  
  
"What did Sherlock do to Sally?" She feared the question, because a part of her already knew the answer.  
  
"Sally's dead, and you have your friend Sherlock to thank for that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…   
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think of the chapter?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.  
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	8. Traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.   
> I'm back.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.   
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.   
> A hug, have a good day

"Sally's dead, and you have your friend Sherlock to thank for that."

Of all the choice words Molly would have preferred to apply to Sally—ungrateful, selfish, martyr—dead had never been one of them. As much as Molly hated competing with the brunette, she'd always depended on Sally being there.

Sally was supposed to marry a Lestrade, have children, and grow old. The two girls were supposed to raise their kids side by side and watch in amusement as their children made the same mistakes that they had when they were young, but that was when their greatest problems were deciding which Lestrade was the most attractive.

Nowhere in their stories had there been any mention of early deaths, abuse, or kidnapping. Life may not have always been in Molly's favor, but she never thought the day would come when she'd be in a situation like she was now.

Everything that had happened to her, and to Sally, was all Sherlock's fault. Yes, one sentence had destroyed Molly's entire perception of reality but it also rebuilt it—a new goal founded on the grounds of revenge.

After swallowing the bile that had risen in her throat, Molly clarified, "he's not my friend."

John smirked, taking note of the new fire that danced in Molly's eyes.

"Perhaps, but he wants you to be."

"Sherlock wants my body and my allegiance, nothing more."

John shook his head. It was understandable that a girl in her situation would be blind to the facts, but still he'd had faith that she would not allow the unsavory predicament to blind her from the truth of the matter.

"If Sherlock simply wanted to take his pleasure from you, he would have done so already. Trust me, I've been tailing him for quite sometime."

"If that were true then why couldn't you save Sally?" she asked, trying to remain strong even if she had to fight the urge to curl into a ball and never face the realities of the world again.

Keeping her head high, she watched as John's face shifted from impassive to guilt ridden and regretful, Way to hit him where it hurts, Molly, she scolded herself.

"I tried, but by the time I got there she was already dead—her blood pooling around her head as the lacerations on her chest spewed blood. The silver buttons of her dress were scattered amongst the grass." John shivered at the gory picture he'd just painted, more for Molly's benefit than his own. "The only reason I knew it was Sherlock was because I saw him digging her grave."

Molly shook her head—this was too surreal for her to understand.

"What more can I do?" She needed to help him bring Sherlock down. She needed to repay the debt she felt to her friend.

"You can have faith in me, that's the first step." John said leaning against the tree behind him.

Ever since their first meeting Molly had yet to trust him implicitly, and that's what he needed. If their plan was going to work Molly needed to play her part to a T.

"I can't just sit around playing distraction when I know he killed one of my only friends."

"What did you think he did to the people of your village? Send them to a nice town with food rations that go on for days?"

"No, I didn't think—"

"That's right you didn't think. You need to stop underestimating whom you're dealing with. Sherlock is the bad guy; the sooner you realize that the better. This is bigger than you and me, and you need to stop getting in the way and do your damn job."

Somewhere in the back of her mind his words echoed something she'd heard before, but she shook it off.

"I just want to help." She whispered, hoping that if she appeared small maybe John would reel in his anger.

"Then why don't you start doing the only job I gave you. Get closer to Sherlock, give him what he wants, God knows it would be more useful than any of the garbage you've given me."

That's when Molly's resolve to be cordial broke.

"You have no right to speak to me in such a manner." she ranted, her whispered tone harsh and angry, "I've done nothing but help you, and in case you haven't noticed I am in a precarious position, so if you could get off your high horse and think before you speak that would be greatly appreciated."

John had never been so shocked in his life, sweet, innocent, supposedly weak Molly was standing up for herself. Before he had a chance to respond, a noise in the distance caught them off guard.

"Molly?" The man, the exact person whom Molly didn't think she would ever be able to look straight in the eye again came up from behind.

When she turned to check on her companion, John was gone, so Molly took a deep breath and steadied herself to face her former friend.

"Greg," she said, letting the sadness creep into her voice. He'd betrayed her and given up his freedom for a girl who was dead and buried.

"Care, can we talked?" He'd asked her the same question a thousand times before and each time she'd refused, but now things were different. Now she didn't wish to say no because she didn't want to hear his lies, but rather because she didn't think she was able to tell lies of her own.

"I just want to get back before Sherlock figures out I'm gone."

"I'll walk you." he volunteered.

"I know the way, Greg."

"I know, but I have some really great news."

"Oh?" She asked, trying to keep her heartache away from his prying eyes.

"Sherlock took me to see Sally yesterday." He could barely hold in his glee and excitement.

"Wait, what?" Molly stammered, coming to a halt.

"She's just a village over from where we are. I didn't speak to her long, but she looks good. Her hair has more curls, and she seems I don't know, just more content. I tried to speak with her about Anderson and it was almost like she had no idea who I was talking about."

"Greg—" Molly began, unsure of how to inform him that whoever he was talking to was definitely not Sally without blowing John's secret.

"Molly, you always said that she would come back to me, and I think she almost has. The way she looked at me, the way we talked, it hasn't been that easy in years. Maybe she's finally over Anderson."

"Maybe" she mused, confused as Hell. Could John have been lying? It was possible considering she did not know him very well, but still what how could he benefit from it? The story about his wife was enough to bring her to his side, did he need to tell her that her lifelong friend was dead?

With a mild headache Molly made her way to the tent she shared with Sherlock.

"I'll see you, Molls." Greg called after her, obviously stuck in his own happy state of mind.

If only that sounded more like a promise and less like a threat, Molly thought to herself.

Ready to sleep away all of her troubles, Molly had almost climbed in bed before she noticed a viking intently watching her every move.

"Sherlock," she shrieked, surprised.

"What were you doing out in the woods, love?"Perhaps she had not been as adept at hiding things as she'd thought. Taking a deep breath Molly began to arm herself against him.

"Stretching my legs, that is unless I am supposed to be cooped up like an animal all day?" She lied, tossing him a hateful glance.

Sherlock was stunned, not because he was unaware of her sentiments towards him, but rather because she'd gone out of her way as of late to hide them.

Grabbing her arm he spun her around to face him.

"You're not allowed to wander out into the woods alone, do you understand me?"

Molly fought the urge to roll her eyes—he was not her father.

"Do you understand me, Molly?" There was a slight edge of panic in his voice. Like he was afraid of something.

With her eyes cast down she mumbled the usual, "okay," before once again turning toward the bed intent on a full night's sleep.

"It's for your own good, love. It's dangerous out there and no one here wants you to get hurt."

She truly hated how condescending he could be, and after the day she'd had Molly no longer saw the purpose of holding her temper. If Sherlock could get away with killing Sally then what was stopping Molly from unleashing a little of her fury on him?

"Yes, because being forced into another man's bed against one's will is completely beneficial."

"I've never, nor will I ever, force myself on you, Molly."

She scoffed, "I am sick of your games and your manipulations. You know as well as I do that you're not keeping me at arm's length out of the goodness of your heart."

"You'd do well to silence yourself on matters you know nothing about, love."

How could his woman vixen not see the trouble she caused him? He knew not how to act around her—she was as confusing as she was bewitching.

"I know far more than you give me credit for." She said with a cold glare.

Their staring contest was interrupted by one of Sherlock's men coming to whisper in his year.

The Viking's face went pale and his blood ran cold.

"Stay here, Molly." He growled about to take his leave.

"No, I am not child Sherlock, I can do as I please." In all likelihood she would have stayed put, had it not been the exact thing that he'd told her to do.

"Quit acting like a child and I won't have to treat you like one."

"Tell me what has you so scared and I won't leave the tent." She bargained, giving him the most innocent look she could manage.

Letting out a disgruntled sigh he explained, "a prisoner has escaped."

Molly froze, he couldn't possibly mean—

"Anderson Lestrade to be exact."

Giving her a knowing look that bordered on pity, he exited the tent to try to track down the man who'd recently taken up the job of becoming Sherlock's human punching bag.

Left alone for the first time all day Molly felt her knees give out. As if Sherlock was not a large enough threat to her health and her sanity, now Anderson was somewhere out there. What was to stop either of them from destroying what little dignity she had left?

In the course of a couple of months Molly had lost everything. Her parents, her friends, her home, all of it was gone. Once again she was the naïve little girl who didn't understand the world around her, and every time she strove to make sense of it, another gust of wind would come to blow her down.

With her body exhausted and her mind wide awake, Molly lay for what felt like hours staring out into her own oblivion. Her world had been shattered and she now knew that no amount of hope or prayer would ever be able to put the pieces back together again. She needed to change, she could no longer simply play the part, she had to become it. She would do whatever was needed to take down those who stood between her and what she really wanted: freedom.

Perhaps it sounded mundane and unoriginal at this point, but it was all she could think about. No matter how many dimpled smiles or flattering compliments Sherlock threw her way none of it made any difference because this was not her choice. Any life she had with him would always be overshadowed by this. The nature of their relationship was not courtship, but that of a captor and their prisoner.

As her resolve set in and her plans changed she burrowed deeper into the blankets of the bed, shielding herself from the cruel wind that howled above her and mingled through the leaves of the trees. A wind that travelled just outside the camp and covered the whispers of two conspirators ready to start a war of their own.

 

* * *

 

"Is everything ready to go?" The raven haired man asked as he stretched for the first time in weeks.

"Not quite, we still need to make sure Holmes is at his weakest, but it shouldn't be long." His companion replied.

"No, it won't" a smirk grew on his face, "who would have thought a simple girl with no personality of her own would capture the affections of the worst viking to ever pillage Europe?"

"Molly's a sweet girl, you know I'd do anything for you, but I hope you're not planning on her becoming a casualty."

The blue eyed man laughed, "Don't tell me she has you under her spell as well?"

"Anderson, this isn't about her, but about us not becoming the same monsters that we are trying to destroy."

"Those who need to die will, this plan is not allowed to fail."

"It won't." his companion reassured.

"It better not, John. For your sake as well as mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.   
> First I want to thank all those people who read my story; It is amazing the support I had.   
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.   
> A hug, have a good day

The dreams came back that night. Dreams filled with self-loathing and fear. Dreams filled with Anderson.

Sherlock and his men had searched through the night but there was no sign of the escapee. They didn't have any idea where to find him, yet Anderson knew everything about them, from where they ate to where they slept.

Anderson was the reason for so much of Molly's grief. It was he who had gotten in the way of her freedom; he who had squandered her chance at happiness. Just from the few moments she'd had in his presence, Molly knew that Anderson had lost every part of himself. Any sense of the brother Greg once loved was now gone, in Anderson's eyes there was nothing. No evil or good, just an empty void, null of any humanity whatsoever. Whatever it was that caused this change in him didn't matter. He was out for blood and Molly was sure hers would do just fine.

As she paced around the camp no man dared to comment on Molly's pale face or the dark circles that underlined her eyes. She was the ghost of their mistake—a haunting reminder that the man they were supposed to keep locked away was now free.

"It had to be an inside job," one viking whispered to another as they watched Molly pick at her breakfast.

His companion shook his head, "anyone who knows Sherlock knows that betrayal is death."

When they heard their leader making his way over, everyone scattered in a dozen direction. His odd attachment to Molly and her current negative emotional state left him in the most hostile of moods.

"Molly, love, come. There's something I wish to show you." he said softly, trying to revive the woman in front of him.

A bit startled from the sudden company, Molly shook her head, not even bothering to look up at Sherlock. Her days were numbered. She didn't know or have faith in the people around her. Greg would never kill his own brother and until Anderson was dead Molly wouldn't feel safe. He'd get to her eventually and that anxiety was slowly destroying what little sanity she had left.

"It will help," Sherlock said taking her arm, "just trust me."

She mentally scoffed, doesn't every kidnapper want their victim to trust them at some point?

Walking through the forest, Sherlock watched with a heavy heart as Molly's eyes dashed behind every tree, as she winced at every gust of wind. He knew all too well the kind of tales her mind was spinning; he too had once feared who was waiting for him in the dark.

Sherlock spent years collecting treasures, searching for the next great adventure. He was certain there wasn't a single man alive who could best him, he was the most experienced of his kind—nothing could surprise him. That was until he found Molly.

Something about her was rare. She was to be cherished, coveted. Sherlock had rarely been gentle in his life, but with her he was willing to try.

"Here we are," he said bringing them to a halt in the middle of nowhere.

Molly gave him a puzzled look, before it turned to fear when he pulled out a sword.

"Shh, love. I already told you I would never harm you." Despite his words, Molly shook like a leaf. She should have known better than to follow him out into the woods.

"This sword is for you." He elaborated, saddened by the reaction he was receiving. He'd been hoping for gratitude, not fear.

Molly just shook her head, Anderson had tried to make her harm herself once. She wouldn't do it. She couldn't, not again.

"I'm not going to use that." Molly said taking a step back, wondering if she'd survive longer if she made a run for it.

Sherlock shook his head, he probably should have explained himself more thoroughly, but he'd been aiming for a more dramatic reveal.

"It's for you to protect yourself." Molly tensed, that was the last answer she would have expected from him.

"I'm your prisoner, and you're giving me a weapon?" She asked in complete disbelief.

Looking a gift horse in the mouth is apparently one of her many talents, Sherlock thought.

"If you can protect yourself then you don't have to worry about Anderson attacking you when you're unguarded." She looked him over, skeptical of his proposal. Molly knew how to use a sword, be it not nearly as well as Sherlock and his men—or Anderson.

"I wouldn't stand a chance." She sighed, defeated.

"I'll teach you," he offered sounding oddly excited. Molly found his affinity for spending time with her unsettling.

Stepping forward Sherlock placed the sword in her hands, "If you can fight for yourself, he'll never hurt you." he whispered.

When Molly met his gaze she was greeted with a rare sight: a glimpse of his humanity. Such tragedy was hiding in the depths of his eyes, it broke her heart to think of the evils he must have seen to become the man he was today. Somehow the look of sadness that etched his features was comforting, it reminded her that she was not alone. She knew Sherlock would never want to speak about his past, but knowing that he may have suffered an ordeal similar to her own, brought to her heart a greater understanding. They were similar in more ways than she originally thought.

"Okay" she agreed and his face lit up. "I do have one request." she added.

Sherlock was giving her a peace of mind she never thought he would bestow upon her, but her heart was aching—she needed the truth. After the day she experienced yesterday, she needed certainty.

"That depends, love." He searched her face for any sign of mutiny.

"I want to see Sally." She said, keeping her head high.

Sherlock stiffened, and Molly's sure demeanor quickly turned to begging.

"Please, Greg told me she's not far from here. I need to know she's okay." Sherlock gave her an appraising glance, he was about to refuse when Molly added in a heartbroken voice, "she was my friend, too."

He knew he would regret this decision, but alas when it came to her he had no choice.

Letting out an exasperated sigh to let her know how unwilling he was, Sherlock promised: "we will go in the morning."

Overcome with an intense joy, Molly acted beyond her own sense of reason and kissed Sherlock on the cheek in gratitude.

The gesture was so foreign to the two of them, they froze waiting for the other's reaction.

"Thank you." She whispered, evading her eyes as a crimson blush crept up her cheeks.

Never had Molly been so open in Sherlock's presence. This change in her behavior was more than enough to supplement the hassle her request would cause.

* * *

 

 

As the two walked back, they were so consumed in their own thoughts, they didn't notice the man lurking in the trees above him.

There was guilt heavy on Anderson's soul, but he'd perked up at the sound of Sally's name. Though he was certain of her death—as certain as he'd be if he'd done it himself—there was still a silent glimmer of hope that kept his heart beating.

That night Anderson followed Sherlock out of the camp, the Viking rarely left and to do so with his little toy in such a good mood, well it seemed almost sacrilegious. Slowly Sherlock trekked to a small village, where he went straight to the door of the most ragged shack in sight.

When the door opened, Anderson lost his breath.

"What do you want Sherlock?" The girl asked, tired and beaten.

"I need your assistance, again."

She sighed, rolling her eyes "You said you'd would take me out of a miserable life and poverty, if I helped you." She reminded him of his promise, keeping her head high.

"I've had far more pressing issues," he growled, "you are not my highest priority, however you help me once more and your importance will increase."

Anderson didn't listen to their words, though perhaps he should have. It would have confirmed his suspicions.

"I'm not going to lie to Greg again. I don't want to be with him or with his stupid brother" she said quickly. 

Sherlock shook his head, "there's someone else."

With a defeated sigh she shook her head. Their web of lies was growing, one of them would go down for this. She was a survivor.

"Do it," Sherlock growled.

Disappointment shook him. She was alive and she had betrayed him. She looked for something much better than Anderson and his brother, and found it in the promise of a monster.

There was nothing left for him in this village, he left Sherlock and Sally with nothing but disgust and contempt in his heart. While he made his way back to the makeshift camp that he and John shared, Anderson could only conjure in his mind the way to get revenge on Sally, and Sherlock.

He had washed the mind of his beloved and innocent girl. Sherlock had to pay.

And without doubting Molly would be the price.

**TBC…**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…   
> You already know what to do.  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Let me know what you think.  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.


	10. Sally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I'm back.   
> First I want to thank all those people who read my story; It is amazing the support I had. Thank you very much indeed, means a lot to me that they like my story. I really thank all who have encouraged me to continue this story.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.   
> A hug, have a good day

That night it was as if the air itself were dead, the only life left was carried in the sky—twinkling with the stars above. Soundly, Anderson sat in the main room of his family's home, and for the first time in years he felt complete. Sally had kissed him. She, the perfect daughter of their small village, wanted him. Anderson couldn't think of anything more awe-inspiring. Opening another bottle of his strongest whisky, Anderson didn't realize how inebriated he was until he heard a faint knock at the door.

Stumbling he opened it, only to be greeted by the most beautiful creature. Dressed in an exquisite gown—covered with tiny flowers adorned with silver buttons—Anderson was sure she looked this heavenly only for him.

"Good evening, Sally." He'd slurred, leaning forward to kiss her. Though disappointed, he was not at all surprised when she dodged his advances—with Greg she'd always been obscenely modest.

"Anderson we need to talk," she said, looking around to make sure they were alone. Most of the town was at a meeting, addressing something about a threat coming to attack their homes. She paid no mind to it, there always seemed to be one crisis or another lurking around the corner.

"Of course." He said falling into a nearby chair, the bottle of alcohol in his hand.

"I need you to know I never meant to hurt you." Sally began, searching his face for some sort of sign.

"It's all in the past now." Anderson said. Throughout the years they'd known each other Sally had not always been her usual kind self to him, but it didn't matter. She was his now. Nothing was going to take her away from him.

"That's not what I'm talking about." She said sadly, moving to take the bottle away from him. She cringed when he moved it out of reach.

"You'll have to kiss me for it." He teased, holding it above his head.

"Anderson, you're drunk." Sally sighed. Leave it to him to be taking advantage of an empty house while his brother did the honorable thing—went to the meeting to protect their village.

Taking a deep breath she continued, drunk or not he needed to hear what she was going to say. If she didn't tell him now, Sally doubted whether or not she ever would. "Anderson, I can't do this anymore."

Anderson froze. "But you chose me." He said it like it was the most important fact to ever be conceived. She chose him; she was his.

"It was a mistake, I can't love you. Not after what you did to Molly. Greg told me. How could you? You know she's like family to me!" Sally's heart was breaking for more than just her friend's trauma. She had never believed Molly, it took someone else's cries for Sally to even realize her friend had been in pain. Her failure to believe her childhood friend—to help her—was a shame Sally would carry for the rest of her life.

 

Anderson growled, Molly screwed everything up. "She's meaningless." He muttered, pulling Sally into his arms.

"No. She's my best friend. Please Anderson, just let me go."

"Never." He vowed, and that was when things took a turn for the worse.

With a frustrated cry, Anderson awoke. Looking around, his heart broke. He wasn't with Sally. He'd never be with her again.

"If you're going to have dreams like that, we may need to move the camp farther away." John joked, not knowing the seriousness of the nightmares that plagued Anderson's mind.

The images that came to Anderson in his sleep were not mere figments of his imagination. No, instead they were memories once lost to him.

"If we want to finish our plan, we'll need to set things into motion." John said, pulling Anderson out of his thoughts.

"Just a few more days, the bastard's up to something."

John nodded, he'd noticed that the Vikings were getting ready to move on. If Anderson knew something he did not, then it was not his place to say anything. John trusted Anderson with his life; he owed everything to him.

"Alright, I'll tail him today—you look like you could use the rest." Gathering his things, John was surprised to find Anderson standing in his way.

"No, I'll go."

He didn't leave room for interpretation.

He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.

Not just kill him, Anderson was going to become him. What started as a quest to honor Sally's life was now a way for Anderson to escape his own. For too long he'd been the unwanted brother, soon he'd become legend.

It wouldn't be easy, but if it meant Anderson no longer had to be the man he was, he'd do anything he could. John knew nothing of this true plan—trusting John saw the world in such a black and white way.

"I will be back before high noon." Anderson promised before making his way to their lookout point.

Once there, he waited for Sherlock and Molly to come out of their tent and head over to the village he'd visited just the night before.

"Do you think she's happy?" Anderson heard Molly ask when they were close. Soon he'd have to move if he hoped to keep up.

"I'm sure she's at peace with herself." Sherlock said, an undeniable smirk in his voice. Anderson grunted, the bastard's clever play on words not going over his head as it had Molly's.

"I guess that's all I can hope for." Molly mumbled.

Molly knew she'd never be happy in a life she had not chosen for herself. Still maybe there was some sort of peace she could find in the odd viking way of life.

They continued on their way, much too comfortable in each other's presence for Anderson's liking.

The emotions in Sherlock's eyes were undeniable. He'd fallen for his own prisoner.

Knowing the viking's true feelings brought Anderson joy, for he knew better. Though Sherlock would deny that he'd kidnapped her, Molly couldn't see it any other way. She wasn't a prisoner of war, she hadn't done anything other than defend herself. Molly would never forgive Sherlock for taking her freedom away. This brought Anderson comfort, because if he couldn't have Sally, then Sherlock couldn't have Molly.

As they walked into the village, Molly wondered if there would be a way to ditch him, though even this thought seem half-hearted. She didn't want to escape with the same vivacity that she once had, and this fact scared her more than any other.

"Here we are love," Sherlock said gesturing towards a tattered shack, motioning for her to knock.

It took only a few moments for the door to open, and before any salutations could be exchanged, Molly had flung herself into the arms of the woman she thought was her best friend.

"I'm so glad you're okay." Molly said.

"I'm so sorry, Molls."

Breaking apart, Molly sent Sherlock a pleading looking.

He nodded, "Be good." Sherlock said in warning, making eye contact with Sally, before he stepped out to give them some privacy.

"How are you?" Molly asked, knowing this was definitely not the kind of living Sally was accustomed to.

"I'm alright, it's been tough, but I will make it through." She replied, hoping to stay vague enough so that Molly would not catch her in a lie.

"Seriously?" Molly asked, shaking her head, "this isn't the time for you to be the perfect martyr. You've lost everything; you can trust me you know."

Though they'd had their differences, lately Molly and Sally had grown closer. Sally was changing into a different person, and Molly thought their relationship might progress beyond the constant jealousy and bickering.

"I'd rather not talk about it." Sally shook her head, trying to come off like the trauma was too much. "What about you? Sherlock seems…" She trailed off hoping Molly would pick up the slack.

"Arrogant? Piggish? Controlling?" Molly rattled, and Sally laughed.

"I wouldn't have said it in so many words," Sally said giving Molly a look that caused the two to erupt in fits of untamable laughter.

Trying to settle down Molly shook her head and took a few deep breaths, "No, it's just he's so—oh God I don't know. After everything that happened with Anderson he's the last thing I need."

Looking out the small window, Molly found it odd that Sally didn't try to defend the man she loved as she usually did. Sure, Sally had slowly been coming to the realization that Anderson was not what he seemed, but there had been no great epiphany as of yet.

"How is Anderson?" Sally asked, mechanically. She was treading on dangerous territory. If Sherlock didn't come to collect Molly soon, then she was sure Molly would figure out the truth.

"He tried to destroy Sherlock's camp. I know he's going to do something horrid I just don't know when."

Molly knew Sally would reprimand her for assuming the worst; that she'd defend Anderson's honor, which was why her next comment shocked Molly.

"He'll burn for his crimes against you, Molls." She said, in the innocent sweet demeanor that Sherlock said she usually took on.

Looking up, Molly was about to say something when there was a knock on the door.

"Come on love, we have to leave now." Sherlock said, keeping in mind the other plans he had for the day.

She stood abruptly and hugged the woman in front of her, "good-bye" she said, so shocked and confused she didn't recall if her companion said anything back.

As she and Sherlock walked back to the camp, Molly turned the facts over in her head. The woman she'd just meant looked so much like Sally, but her childhood friend would never condemn Anderson in such a blunt fashion. Not even when he was at his worst.

When Anderson had beaten her to the point where she couldn't stand anymore, Molly had crawled to the Donovan´s house, knowing full well she'd never make it home on her own.

Sally had opened the door and immediately came to her aid, "dear God, Molly." She'd cried.

Together they made their way towards Molly's home.

"What happened, Molls?" Sally asked.

Molly fought to keep her eyes open, "Anderson was angry."

Sally hugged her friend closer, "of course he was angry; you could have gotten yourself killed. I'm surprised he let you leave in this condition. What did you do to harm yourself?"

Molly mentally rolled her eyes; classic Sally defending the virtues of others at the extent of Molly's own intelligence and well-being.

"He hurt me." Molly said, as loud as she could despite the pain in her ribs.

This was the first time she'd ever admitted the abuse to anyone. It felt good to no longer have secrets between her and her best friend.

Sally looked so distraught, for a while Molly thought that for the first time she might actually take her side, but then her friend said, "I will pray extra for you tonight, bruises will heal but if your mind is harmed enough for you to believe Anderson would actually cause you pain then your fate may only be in God's hands."

That destroyed Molly's hope. She had reached out to Sally only to be shoved away.

Sally would always see the best in others. She'd never speak ill of another, even if it meant not comforting a friend in need.

"How was your chat?" Sherlock asked, pulling Molly out of her musings.

He was gleeful thinking he'd been able to successfully keep Sally's death a secret—and by extension keep Molly and Greg by his side.

"It was nice; she was sweet." Molly could honestly say she'd enjoyed her time, still something bothered her.

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, sweet-heart." Sherlock said as they made it to the camp.

"There's only one problem." Molly met his gaze, hoping he would give her his full attention.

Sherlock held his breath. He knew what was coming, but still he'd been so hopeful. He should have known better than to try to trick her. Molly was not the love-sick fool Greg was.

"Sally has never been your prisoner. She came by choice."

And with one sentence Sherlock knew that their relationship—their current dynamic—would be changing dramatically. He could no longer keep Molly in the dark, for if he did, he'd lose her forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think?  
> Any suggestions for for new situations?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. This is my first story in this fandom. So have patience.  
> I hope you like this new story  
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.   
> A hug, have a good day

**_A few years ago…_ **

_"You always have to prepare for what's coming around the corner, Molly."_

_She hummed in response, repressing the urge to roll her eyes. William Hooper was always trying to instill wise proverbs into her life. No moment was too small, Molly's father could turn anything into a learning experience._

_"I'm serious, Molly." He took the book from her hands, "Someday life is going to show you what's lurking in the dark. You'll know what it's like to lose something sooner or later, but there is one thing you must hold onto no matter what."_

_Molly looked up, curious. "What's that papa?"_

_"Yourself."_

_She chucked. Such a cliché answer from a man who worshiped all overused idioms._

_"Listen to me, my dear!" He threw his hands up in exasperation. "Someday soon our world is going to shatter. You need to be prepared."_

_Sitting up straight, Molly watched the fear dance in her father's eyes. In the past when he told her how sheltered she was, mentally she'd scoff. Her father didn't know about Anderson. William Hooper had never been abuse. Yet, the apocalyptic tone in his voice had Molly thinking this was not the everyday warning._

_"You need to decide right now who you are. No matter what happens in this world, you'll never be able to live with yourself if you betray your own life."_

_"Papa, you're scaring me." Molly cried, reaching for her book,_

_Holding it out of her reach, William nodded. "Good, it's about time someone put the fear of God in you." William paced around the room. "I will pay for my sins, and you may hate me when this is all over, just know that I love you, Molly."_

_Getting up to give her father a hug, Molly then smelled the wine on his breath. He was drunk._

Due to the her father's lack of sobriety the conversation that she'd had with him three days before Sherlock's arrival slipped her mind. The specifics falling out of focus and growing fuzzier with time, though the meaning of her father's words and warnings would linger.

As she went about her time in Sherlock's camp, Molly soon began to see the importance simple words could have.

One sentence had changed Molly's whole word when she discovered Sally wasn't death. Now she was using the same kind of concept on Sherlock. Molly was reclaiming her power. Proving to him that she would not lie down and take whatever nonsense he was intent on feeding her.

"Sally has never been your prisoner. She came by choice."

She was certain. No one, not even Greg, knew Sally better than she did. Molly had seen all the parts of the perfect Sally Donovan, even the pieces that were never allowed to be shown in public. The rest of the town was shocked that sweet, innocent Sally could ever love a beast such as Anderson. Molly was the only one to see that they may have been perfect for each other. Were it not for Anderson's drunken spouts of abuse he would have been the perfect husband for dear Sally.

"I don't know what you're speaking of, love." Sherlock feigned ignorance, hanging onto whatever hope he had left. If Molly were in the dark it would make his life infinitely easier.

"Sherlock Holmes I swear if you lie to me one more time I'm going to lose my mind. Unless you want me to run into that camp, lied and claiming you really killed an innocent woman in cold blood―Greg's love no less―then I suggest you get off your high horse and tell me what the Hell is going on!"

Having found her inner strength, Molly was seething with uncontainable rage. The sight would have been beautiful were it not directed at him.

"That's a long story for another day." Trying to placate her, Sherlock put a hand on her arm.

He knew coming clean was inevitable, but still he wanted to delay the process. A few hours and he'd be able to collect enough evidence to vindicate himself from the guilt Molly was no doubt ready to place on him.

"She is helping you. Don't even think about denying it."Her tone was biting. The accusation clearly spoken between the lines.

Molly took a step forward, "If you ever want me to trust you, then you need to tell me what happened to Sally. She is my friend."

Sherlock sighed, he should have known better than to think this woman would ever be malleable to his will.

Molly had enough nightmares as it was. He could feel her heart race and her body tense whilst she slept beside him. She wouldn't stop until she had the truth.

* * *

 

**_ Flashback.  _ **

_To his recollection it had been a perfect night. The stars above danced, as if they were anticipating his victory. This tiny village was nothing. They didn't need to harm these people, but it would keep Sherlock and his men on their toes. Or at least that was the excuse Sherlock was going with._

_In reality he knew pillaging by land was not always the viking forte, but this village in particular called him closer. So similar to the one he grew up in, there was a deep-seated anger that took over. He wanted his home, and all places like it, burned to ashes._

_Surveying around the small village, he was just out of sight―tucked away in the trees―when he heard the voice of a young woman._

_"I have seen you. I know who you are and I have a proposal to make. "_

 

* * *

 

 "She wanted freedom o mercy?" Molly asked, putting the pieces together once Sherlock's story was over.

"Your friend wanted more. The sly girl was in love with the two brothers. But his love wasn't enough to stay and live in a village where she would grow up to be nothing more than an insignificant mother, performing daily tasks. "

Shrinking into herself, Molly shook her head. Sherlock hadn't killed Sally, but John said he had. John who was her only hope. Did he know the truth, or was he just making assumptions? If he was lying then how could she trust him? And if she couldn't trust him then how could she break free?

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, unable to speak her friend's name.

Sherlock gave her a look, judging to see if she might break. "She wanted a man who would give her everything and not an alcoholic man like Anderson or too noble to be bowed down like Greg."

Molly didn't just break, she shattered.

"She gave me the necessary information to attack your village, she told me about those warriors that could face my army. Her information facilitated my conquest. In exchange I gave her what she wanted, a new life away from poverty and mediocrity. I promised her a new man willing to give her what she so vocally believes she deserves. She just has to wait."

Sordid pain

She was numb. Her mind flew somewhere far from reality.

Her body continued to move by inertia but her mind was full of images of her childhood, her friends and family.

All dead, sold by a simple idea.

A fucking selfish idea.

Lives exchanged for gold and power.

Molly had a broken heart, but her soul broke even worse.

"There's nothing you could have done, Molly. You couldn't make her change her mind. She sold me your village and her people for sheer convenience." Sherlock said, his voice the same as if he were speaking to a child.

Shaking Molly stepped away from his pitying looks and kind words.

"It was not your fault, honey,"

Coming forward, Sherlock tried to take her into his arms―to hold and protect her, but she shrank away from his touch. Slightly insulted that his well-meaning gesture had been rejected he straightened his back.

"Greg thought she was dead."

"Yes, Gayten's poor heart broke believing that his beloved was dead, that made him even more manageable. More useful, for my plans."

She shook her head. It was too much information to process.

"You can't tell Greg of the news you've found here today." He told her, his tone harsher than intended.

"He deserves the truth." Molly said with conviction, her sudden anger a welcomed distraction from her grief.

"If you tell him you'll destroy more than just the bond between two brothers―you'll destroy his hope. Don't be selfish, Molly."

Molly gaped at him. Selfishness was trying to keep him in the dark. Sherlock was selfish, not her.

"If you tell him, he won't believe you." Sherlock said, forcing Molly to look at him. His hand cupped her face as he kept her eyes on him. "He's lost too much, don't take Sally from him too."

Perhaps it was her own weakness, but Molly thought she saw something in Sherlock's eyes. Something good. If his intentions were honest, then perhaps she should allow him a few days to tell Greg on his own terms―but only until she was finished grieving.

No longer able to be in Sherlock's presence, Molly rushed back to their tent. He watched her leave, letting her have what little space the camp allotted.

Though he knew the secret would cause Molly pain, Greg could not know Sally was a traitor. It was more than enough to have one Lestrade brother running around with a death wish, the camp really didn't need a crazed lover on the loose as well.

Gazing at the tent where Molly was no doubt weeping, for the first time Sherlock felt something almost foreign to him. Years of destroying lives, and it was when he was innocent that he felt remorse. Even with good intentions nothing was worth Molly's pain.

Now that she knew the truth, her nightmares would become worse. He knew that Anderson occupied her sleep. That man was a true monster―the kind of monster that Sherlock had thought only existed in Moriarty.

* * *

 

They were always lurking, waiting. When they lost something they'd lash out.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, Anderson had heard every word of the conversation with Molly, and the beast had growled at the idea of Sherlock giving his beloved a new home.

Sherlock was daft. He'd let Molly have some power over him, and Anderson would be sure to make that the biggest regret of Sherlock's life.

Finally traveling back to John, Anderson was greeted by the smell of freshly killed deer.

"I, for one, am productive while you're away." John teased, poking fun at the times when he'd come back from watching the camp to find Anderson hadn't moved an inch.

Anderson nodded, "Listen, mate. I've got something we need to hash out..."

Anderson hated what was about to happen. John was a valuable asset, but with the truth about Sally out in the open, John would soon turn into a weapon against him.

John never knew Sally, and yet he'd choose her every time. He chose her because he thought she was the only way to understand what had really happened with his beloved wife Mary.

Sally had helped Mary escape, that's what John thought.

"Sure, just let me finish cutting this meat." John said, stringing up the deceased deer, its blood slowly dripping. Each perfect bulb of red coming to meet the Earth, carrying with it a terrible kind of beauty.

Anderson shook his head, coming up behind his friend. If John had any faults it would be his inability to read people. Even children knew better than to give Anderson their trust, yet John put everything on the line for him. It was certainly a naïve and regrettable decision.

Picking up a rock, Anderson stalked behind him, "I'm really sorry, buddy."

John was about to ask why when his world went black. His blood mingling with that of the doe.

Tossing the bloody rock aside, Anderson began to ransack their camp. He'd have to go on the run. Find new allies. It would take longer but it was necessary. Stealing as much food and supplies as he possibly could Anderson began what he could only assume would be a long journey. His goal was a simple one. He was going to find the one thing that Sherlock feared the most and he was going to use it to bring the Viking to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think of the chapter?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.   
> I hope you like this new chapter.   
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock.   
> A hug, have a good day

_The day was singing; the sun had full command of a cloudless sky. Little could be done to mar such a perfect summer day―little save for the sobbing Sally curled in a ball just outside the door of her home._

_"What's wrong, Victoria?" Molly asked, setting down her bucket of water to aid in her friend's tears._

_"I've just received word that my Aunt Amanda has died." She cried, and Molly gave her a quick hug._

_Although she was extremely curious about this newly deceased aunt that she'd never heard of, Molly kept her questions to herself._

_"Everything will get better V, you'll see." She made this promise having never truly grieved for anyone in her life._

_"Better?" Victoria asked. She scoffed, "I was happy and I will never have the same kind of happiness again. Amanda is gone. She will never come back, all I have to look forward to is something different, not better. Never better."_

_Heart aching, a grief-stricken V rose to enter her house, leaving Molly alone to think._

It would be many moons before Molly would come to understand what Victoria meant that day. Things would never truly be better than they were when the person one loved was alive. Victoria was left to hope for something equally as great in a different form, and now Molly was left to do the same.

The problem was she had no idea what to wish for. Everything she knew had been taken from her. There was no foundation for her to build her life on. Who could she trust? Not Greg, nor Sherlock. Not even John. She was alone. Completely utterly alone. She had no one to share her heart with and that's what made her grief spiral into something else entirely.

It controlled her. She was now a slave to her emotions. Perhaps she'd not always been calm and collected but now she was victim to whatever whim sprang through her head. If even touched by the tiniest wave of sadness she would weep. If she overheard a stale joke through the flimsy door of the tent, she'd laugh until she could not breath. Everything was more intense and the world felt heavier because of it.

Trying to wrestle down her own mind, it was days before Molly stepped out of their tent. She'd hardly eaten and she'd rarely slept. Sherlock was there if she needed someone to talk to, readily giving her his ear, but to his dismay she couldn't find any words to convey her sadness. Molly doubted the English language contained any proper description for her loss.

Losing any loved one is hard, but Molly had always found a way to distance herself from those about to take their final breath. Perhaps it was selfish, but between Anderson, her family, and her own insecurities, Molly always doubted whether or not she would be able to withstand losing someone she cared for. Every part of her life, for this reason, was carefully decided. There was only one problem: she never planned on losing his family, her people.

No future had ever been planned without her family. Having to rethink what was to come just wasn't possible. Her family's death marked something greater than what it was. Along with them, Molly lost all of her dreams.

For this reason, the weight of her grief felt like it would never subside, she could only hope to grow strong enough to handle it.

Pondering her own misery as she walked around the camp, for the first time since her conversation with Sherlock, Molly was startled when he appeared out of nowhere.

"Nice to see you up and about, love." He said, snaking his arms around her waist and pulling her close.

"I'm sure." She nodded, stepping out from his side to look him in the eye.

Last night she made a promise to herself, and if she didn't ask Sherlock now she never would. Taking a deep breath to keep her resolve alive and strong, she declared: "I'm ready."

"Ready for what, sweetheart?" Sherlock jovially asked. His own mood brightened by the change her demeanor.

"Ready for you to teach me how to fight." Molly raised her head so he'd see her conviction.

She promised herself that she would honor her family's life. Molly would no longer fall victim to Anderson, and if that monster came for her then she'd be ready. As long as Molly survived so did a part of her people, her family.

"I'm busy at the moment, Molly." Sherlock mentally cursed the maps that awaited him. Finally Molly was ready to spend time with him and he had priorities that could not be ignored.

"Okay, I'll wait."

Sherlock grinned, finding Molly's determination refreshing―for days she'd been a ghost of the fiery maiden he'd met the night she fought off his men.

"I tell you what Molly," Sherlock said, bring her hand to his lips, "You bring one of my men out to the clearing in the woods, and I will be there as soon as I can."

Nodding she asked the first man she saw to accompany her: a dirty haired man named Billy.

They walked in silence, neither being particularly well acquainted with the other.

"How long have you been with Sherlock?" Molly asked as they made their way towards the clearing.

She was curious and of all the men in the camp, Billy spoke the least. He was quiet, though the way he glared at anyone who dare strike up conversation did not imply he was docile. Molly always found he reminded her of home―just a few doors dong the neighbors had a grumpy dog that acted quite the same way.

 "Long enough." Billy said, keeping his focus on the woods. Everyone knew to protect Molly at all costs. For the years Billy had been a member of Sherlock's troops, he'd never seen his leader so taken with a girl.

Molly's laugh carried through the wind, "not a man of many words, are you Bill?"

He shook his head.

When they made it to their destination, Molly took a deep breath―glad for the change in scenery. Turning to meet Bill's gaze, she was surprised by what she saw there.

There was a fight in his eyes. He reminded her of herself.

"Tell me Bill, how did you come to choose the life of a viking?" She was prying, not that Molly could help it. She was in desperate need of a distraction and curiosity was a welcomed change from the crippling despair she was greeted with every morning.

"I didn't." He grumbled, pain seeping into his gruff tone.

Before she could ask him what he meant, Sherlock stepped through the trees.

Signalling to Bill that he could leave, he kissed Molly on the cheek.

"I will talk with you later, Billy." She called to his retreating figure. Her curiosity wouldn't be sated until she knew his story, but for now she had more pressing issues.

"Making friends, are we love?"

"Since you're so unwilling to let me go, I need to find some pleasant company to pass the time with." Slightly bitter at the truthfulness of her quip, Molly took a step back from him

Sherlock brought a hand to shield his heart, "if your fighting skills are as sharp as your wit, I fear I will not stand a chance."

Molly laughed, suddenly feeling oddly giddy. "It's cute that you ever thought you did."

Sherlock gave her a long look before he too erupted in thundering laughter. She was the only one he would allow to call him cute.

Molly sighed; this felt good. It felt wonderful to at least act happy. There had always been so much stress in her life―the need to impress her parents, suppress her trauma, and make a good living always looming over her head. Now with everybody gone there was no one left to please, Molly could do as she wished. It's strange, but for her it was in captivity that she first felt the kind of freedom she'd always been yearning for: freedom of the mind.

When their laughter died down, Sherlock just watched Molly. She was more than beautiful; she was enchanting.

"Are you going to stare, or are you going to teach?" Molly asked, keeping the teasing edge in her voice. If she could play the carefree warrior, then perhaps she would become so.

"That depends, love." Sherlock smirked, circling around her like a hawk to its prey.

"On?" She prompted.

"Are you prepared?" He asked.

"What kind of―" she was cut off when her body slammed against his, her arms pinned behind her back and her chest crushed against the grassy floor.

"The first rule is to never lose track of our opponent." His breath was warm, tickling the back of her neck.

Molly rolled her eyes. Of course Sherlock would be taking full advantage of the situation, though she was not entirely sure she minded.

Pushing him off her, Molly took the stance Greg had always taught her.

"Greg said the best offense is a good defense." Molly said, trying to push his buttons. Remind him that she wasn't just a toy, but rather a person with a past.

"I'm sure he did." He grumbled, momentarily distracted.

Molly hummed. Perhaps this was why she felt so uncharacteristically gleeful. This scene was all to similar to one she had nearly a year ago with her best friend.

* * *

 

 

** Flash back.  **

_"You should know, Molls, that the best offense is always a good defense." Greg said, picking up the wooden stick he was using to demonstrate basic sword maneuvers._

_Molly huffed, "how wonderfully specific, Greg."_

_Greg shook his head, "You can't just become a master fighter without knowing the concepts." He laughed, Molly was definitely not a patient person. He didn't expect her to last more than an hour._

_"I don't want to be a 'master fighter' I just want to protect myself." Whining always worked on Greg._

_"I know." He said growing distant. He didn't want to talk about Anderson anymore than she did. They were both betrayed by his brother's lack of character and now was not the time to hash out the details._

_"I could protect you, Molly. If that's what you wanted." He needed to pay his family's debt to his childhood friend. Molly may not have always been his favorite person, but never could she have deserved Anderson's wrath._

_"Now why would I want a man like you, when I could do it a thousand times better on my own?"_

_Molly laughed when he pouted, picking up the stick he'd designated to be her weapon._

_They sparred through the day, laughing, joking, and reveling in kicking the other to the ground―though, admittedly, it was usually Greg who came out victorious._

_"You have to know your enemy." Greg said as he stalked around Molly._

_She smirked to herself, and when he went to lunge―knowing she wouldn't win based on fighting skill alone―Molly made it out to be that she'd tripped and twisted her ankle._

_Immediately Greg came to her aid. With his guard down, Molly attacked and swiftly made her way to victory._

_"That won't work on everyone, Molls." Greg grumbled, as he brushed the dirt from his sleeves._

_"It didn't have to work on everyone, just you."_

**_ End of the Flash back. _ **

* * *

 

 

"You'd be a much better fighter if you didn't think so much, love." Sherlock pulled her out of her head.

Molly sighed, "I'm sorry, I guess I was distracted."

Sherlock smirked, "If you wanted to gaze at me all you had to do was ask."

Molly glared, "Just go again."

After correcting her stance, the two went on. Sherlock showed her how to get out of the more basic attack positions and how to use her opponent's weight against them. It was strenuous, but she hadn't felt so content in a long while.

"I'll make you a deal, Molly." He said.

Molly looked up, barely able to keep her body from hitting the ground let alone process what he was saying.

"You win the next round and I will let you chose where we make our next camp."

"And if I lose?" Molly asked, intrigued.

"We'll say you owe me a favor." He said, giving Molly a look that caused chills to run down her spine.

"Okay." She agreed.

"Wonderful." He smirked getting into position.

Each held a piece of wood which would simulate a small knife.

For some reason Molly wanted more than anything to win. Sherlock was, as far as she could tell, a man of his word, and if it meant she could go somewhere where she wanted to go―well then she would make a deal with the devil. Besides, a rational part of her brain whispered if she knew where they were heading an escape would be all that much easier.

When Sherlock attacked, Molly watched his hands. She didn't want him to win quickly. Surely Sherlock was not nearly as compassionate as Greg, but he did have other weaknesses.

When he inevitably grabbed her, Molly used his tricks to flip an opponent, only in a way he was not prepared for. Instead of rolling him off her back, Molly rolled under him so that the two fell to the ground together. Effectively pinning herself beneath him

For a second, he hesitated. Being in a compromising position with the woman who plagues his mind was causing his focus to fade. Though he had her hands pinned to the ground, nothing could have prepared Sherlock for what Molly did next.

She kissed him.

She willingly brought her lips to his and it was glorious. She was soft and fragile, yet still she pushed him in ways only the most dominant would.

Slowly she moved to flip them over, and he―who was so distracted by her touch―let her.

His grip loosened, and Molly's hands broke free. One hand cupping his face the other reaching for the fake knife.

In a second she had the piece of wood up against his heart.

"I win." She giggled, her lips slightly swollen from their kisses.

Sherlock was stunned. "That's cheating." He accused, not making any move to get out from under her.

"No―that's knowing your opponent." She smirked.

The ramifications of her actions would come later, for now she had beaten the most notorious viking. She was happy, giddy, and too tired from days of grieving to care about the consequences her actions might have.

Getting up, Sherlock let Molly define how their walk back would be. Not wanting to push her too far and discourage the kind of attention he'd just received in the woods.

Noticing a red stained cloth tied to a tree branch―one of the signs John had set up for their meetings―Molly struggled to find an excuse to get away from Sherlock.

Luckily she needn't think about it long. The same man she'd taken out to the clearing earlier, Bill, came to grab him.

"Do not stray too far, my love." Sherlock warned, daring to place a chaste kiss on her cheek.

Agreeing, Molly watched him walk off. Once he was out of sight, she bolted. After their moment she knew he would not leave her alone for long. John would have to be brief.

When she made it to their usual meeting spot, she gasped in horror when she saw the back of John's head―deformed and scabbed, days old blood matted in his hair.

"Dear lord, what happened?" Molly asked, looking for anything that could help clean his wound.

"Hello to you too, Molly." John grumbled.

He wasn't sure if he was ready to see her, but he needed some answers. He couldn't believe that Anderson would simply attack then rob him. There was no way. Molly had to have heard something in the camp; she had to have answers.

"John, what happened to your head?"

"A minor altercation." He said. Molly needn't know the details of his life.

Always the mysterious man in the dark, she thought.

"Alright." Molly kept her eyes down. She could recognize a battle that could not be won, and this was surely one of them.

"Have you heard anything of the escaped prisoner?" John asked, getting straight to the point as per usual.

"You know Anderson?" Molly asked, her posture becoming rigid.

"Of course not," John said, keeping his emotions in check, "I've been watching the camp for months, you didn't think I would notice a prisoner making a run for it?"

His answer, though it made sense, still made Molly uneasy. "His name was Anderson and you can count yourself lucky that you never made his acquaintance."

"He couldn't have been that bad." When Molly glared he clarified, "the enemy of my enemy."

"Anderson is the evil!" She said, hating to hear any reason that Anderson might not be the ultimate monster.

"I told you the evil is Sherlock." John was was almost shouting. This girl wouldn't be any help to him if she believed in Sherlock.

"You were wrong."

"You honestly believe that?" John shouted.

"Yes, Anderson is a bad man. You don't know him as I do."

"Maybe not, but I do know that Sherlock is the devil in disguise. He's got a hold of your brain and now you're talking nonsense."

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. "He may be a viking but he's not entirely evil."

"He killed Sally."

"He didn't kill her. She is alive,"Molly pauses. "Sally made a deal with Sherlock, He helped her. "

John swallowed―his mouth was dry. "If she is alive, then where is my Mary?"

The realization falls like a bucket of cold water on John's shoulders. “Maybe my wife isn't dead"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think of the chapter?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	13. Betrayal

To those who knew him well, it was no secret that John wasn't the picture of mental health. Years of fighting the inevitable came with a high cost to pay, and he'd lost sight of the simple things that made life worth living. Through this development he became an easy target for a sociopath to manipulate, but of course John would never recognize this.

Anderson wasn't a monster. Anderson was his friend. John needed Anderson.

Molly lied.

There could be no other solution.He trusted Anderson, and thus Anderson was worthy of his trust.

The state of Molly's accusations made it clear that the situation was far more dire than he'd originally assessed. Anderson wanted to wait, but John knew it was too late. He needed to act now; if he did they could still win. There was still a chance to avenge the death of Mary. There was still hope.

Anderson didn't leave him. No, John's friend was taken from him. Ripped away by the blatant lies of a tyrannical viking leader.

Tomorrow night, when the moon reached its apex, John would bring everything together. He may not have the backup needed, but with Sherlock's men so distracted, he hardly thought he'd need it.

John plotted through the night, finding little comfort in logic or reason―instead devoting himself to pain and anger. He wouldn't find any sleep that night, and neither would the young Molly.

She was anxious, unsure, and afraid.

She'd kissed Sherlock, how was she supposed to feel? He was meant to be her enemy; she should hate him with the same magnitude that she had Anderson―but since when had doing just that become so difficult?

Somewhere between her last escape attempt and their sparring in the woods, Molly lost some of her animosity. This terrified her. The chances of a successful escape were extremely diminished by a distracted heart. She thrashed and fought against herself all night, and tried to untangle herself from unwanted desires and lost dreams. Eventually exhaustion overcame her and she fell into a deep slumber.

When she awoke she felt pleasantly warm and secure. Like most mornings Sherlock was sleeping to her right, his arm slung protectively over her waist. She was using his chest as a pillow and it felt oddly normal.

Get a grip Molly, she scolded herself.

Of all the men in the world she always had to pick the damaged one. Molly had to be the one to fix things. She'd never yearned for anything more than to be put first, for someone to see her as the most important thing in the whole world. Perhaps that was too much to ask for, but if Molly could have just one epic love in her life, then she'd be happy. Unfortunately she always chose the selfish men, the ones who could never love her the way she needed to be loved.

 

_"Please Molly, you're less than a whore," Anderson had told her, "you're not experienced or attractive enough to waste the sin on."_

She pitied herself to think of the things she once did. The ways she begged Anderson to take her body―her virginity. Perhaps he would have, had it not been something she was wishing for.

_"I doubt any man would be able to find pleasure between your legs." Anderson snickered at the shocked hurt on her face._

He'd rejected her. She'd been willing to give him anything: her body, her love, her devotion. Yet, he threw it away. She was nothing more than a mask he used to shield his pining for his brother's girl, and the town was none the wiser.

_"You're a godless girl, Molly." Anderson would scream, "You know nothing of this world, and you're throwing your soul away."_

Maybe she was.

After all, here she was in a land surrounded by temptations and though she should choose a thousand different fates, all she wanted was the most forbidden fruit of all.

It was wrong. It was disgusting. It was Molly.

All she'd ever managed to do was destroy other peoples' perfection. Her town, her best friend, her parents―all gone. They weren't coming back, and though she tried to grieve it was never for the right reasons. She didn't love her family enough. She was selfish.

She wondered what she had done wrong. Her father was right, she would never be as pious as she wanted the world to believe.

Looking over at the man who was pinning her to his chest, she couldn't help but wonder why he wanted her. Through his travels there must have been girls more beautiful, more courageous, more everything. Yet, she was the one who he couldn't let go of.

She wouldn't be leaving anytime soon―would it really be that bad to give him a chance? What if she could find some kind of happiness with him in this camp?

She shook her head. No.

He'd taken her choices away, forced her into a position where her life was not her own. That should be unforgivable. But if that was so, why did her heart ache at the thought of never seeing him again?

"See something you like, love?" Sherlock teased, startling her. She didn't know he was awake enough to feel her gaze.

"No, only an arrogant pig headed viking."

Her retorts are becoming bolder, Sherlock thought.

Flipping them over so that he'd be on top, he looked down at his little treasure. By far she was the most valuable thing he'd ever acquired.

"If I recall correctly from yesterday, this is where you kiss me." Sherlock joked, leaning in.

Molly laughed and shook her head, "Get off me you oaf."

The smile Sherlock wore this morning was contagious, though a few weeks ago she'd wished him dead, now she saw him as at least a friend. It was wrong, and she'd still leave him the first chance she got, but she no longer wished him all the pain of God's wrath.

"How about you give me a morning kiss, then I'll collect the maps for you to make your big decision," Sherlock closed his eyes as if anticipating her lips on his.

Molly scoffed, "I don't recall that being a part of the deal."

He pressed closer, "Consider it a contingency."

She rolled her eyes, "That kiss was a one time thing."

"Mmm," He breathed, enjoying feeling close to her, "I wouldn't bet on that."

He sounded so certain it made Molly uneasy. "Let's get up so we can start the day, okay?" Her words came out short and awkward.

"Of course Milady," Sherlock got up and offered Molly a hand.

They put on whatever garments were necessary―Sherlock a shirt, and Molly a new dress―then made their way to the middle of the camp. It was empty now and with Molly's decision they'd be moving out that night.

"I will go make some preparations, feel free to walk around the camp, love." Sherlock said, placing a kiss on her cheek before he went to find all maps of the surrounding area.

Molly looked around. There was no one here that she was particularly fond of. She and Greg had yet to make up, and even if they had she felt too much guilt keeping the secret of Sally's death from him.

Seeing a familiar face brooding in the shadows, Molly took a spot beside Billy

"Good Morning." She said in an unnaturally cheery tone.

Billy simply inclined his head in her direction and went back to cleaning his sword.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Molly couldn't take it anymore. She was curious by design, and seeing as they had nothing else to talk about, she decided being blunt would be the best way to sate her desire for answers.

"What did you mean when you said you didn't become a viking by choice?" She asked.

Billy gave her an incredulous look, "that I didn't choose this life." He replied, basically restating her question.

"Then what made you do it?"

Her question was met with more silence.

Billy may be forced to protect this girl, but that didn't mean she needed to know every aspect of his personal life.

"You see Billy, there's just one thing I don't get." She paused as if she was waiting for some kind of cue from him, "most of the men in this camp would kill to have Sherlock call on them the way he does you, right?"

Billy nodded. He supposed to the average outsider he would seem relatively highly ranked among the men.

"You're like one of his go to guys, but you seem to be even unhappier than I am most days."

Still Billy said nothing. He was losing sight of what Sherlock saw in this girl, the man liked chatterboxes even less than he did.

"Why Billy? Why are you here?" Molly was prying at his doors trying to get him to open up. He had to know that she had no one to tell―she just felt the need to get to know him.

He looked her in the eye, he hadn't planed on trading secrets with her―she didn't need to know his story. He barely wished to know it himself.

"Same reason as you, Molly."

Maybe he said too much, but the girl was so shocked she finally stopped talking.

"Hey Billy, it's time to do our final patrols." Chris, a kind and oddly skittish man, said.

"Alright, let me grab my knife and we'll get going." Stretching, he nodded his head towards Molly in some sort of goodbye and left her there.

Same reason as you, Molly. What the Hell was that supposed to mean?

Billy was as skilled as any other man in Sherlock's command. If he wished for freedom could he not have it? What other secrets were buried in this camp?

She sat alone for what seemed like an eternity―contemplating the inner workings of this strange collection of people Sherlock had put together―but eventually the man in question came to her side with a childlike smile on his face. In his arms he held the maps of all the lands that were even remotely in the direction he and his men were headed in.

"Alright love, choose carefully. This could be the biggest decision of your entire life."

You have no idea, Molly thought.

Just a few glances at these maps had Molly's mind on overload. So many cities, rivers, forests. How could there be so much beauty in the world when she'd only known pain?

"Where would you suggest?" She asked, sending Sherlock an innocent glance.

He seemed to take her question very seriously. For a moment he hummed, thinking to himself. This could be his opportunity to make her completely his. To own her mind body and soul. If he chose the perfect venue with which to enchant her, then she'd be hoodwinked and his for the taking.

"Here," Sherlock said putting his finger in the middle of what seemed like a nondescript place in the woods.

"There are waterfalls here that would take your breath away love," his voice came out in a husky whisper.

Molly took a closer look, "how do you know of this place?" There was no evidence of its existence on the map.

"On my travels I've uncovered many hidden gems." Sherlock brought a hand to brush the hair from her face.

Though she wouldn't believe him, Sherlock regarded Molly as his diamond in the ruff. She was to be cherished, and had he not been there to collect her she never would have come to know her true value.. He would do anything to keep Molly safe and with him for the rest of their natural lives. In his own way he allowed himself to care for her, making him vulnerable. If she broke him, no one would be able to predict his actions.

"This is where we will go then." Molly said, nodding her head as if she was agreeing with herself on the decision.

Not far off there seemed to be clusters of streams―places where civilizations were bound to be found. Even if they weren't it seemed like a bountiful enough area that she would be able to survive long enough to find her way.

Molly couldn't allow herself to depend on John anymore. The man seemed to be losing what little hope he had. So consumed by his hatred for another, John was losing the pieces of humanity that made life precious.

Looking into Sherlock's eyes, Molly couldn't see why he was hated so. Still, she knew her village was not alone. There must have been thousands like it, and she'd be willing to bet that John was not the only man to lose a loved one at Sherlock's hand.He must have so many enemies. Hatred consumed his life. And still Molly wanted to give him a chance, to at least say they had some sort of genuine friendship before she fled.

They had some kind of light in their future. Molly believed that he could become a better person―she could show him that she knew he wasn't evil, and Sherlock would spend every day making sure she never went to bed feeling unloved.

Unfortunately, this idealistic view of life was thrown away that night, when John attacked.

He came in with so much fury one would have thought he had an army behind him―and perhaps in John's mind he did.

He ran in sword pointing at the night sky, screaming declarations of love and revenge. For Mary.

John may have come in like a crazy man, but he did manage to cause some damage. He slit the throat of two men and severely injured a third before Chris was able to subdue him. The attack itself wasn't notable. Unfortunately men came in all the time thinking they could reclaim their honor. They could die a hero's death if they died for the people of their village. And they always did―die that was.

John would've been simply beheaded in the morning, had it not been for his unwillingness to go down alone.

"You're just lucky Molly was such a shitty informant." He spat as one of the men placed another hot iron blade to his skin.

That made them pause. Usually when torturing, their victims would beg or plead. Some would remain silent and the severely deranged ones would laugh. None of these strange mumblings would be passed on to Sherlock, however the men of his camp knew better than to keep any potential news of Molly away from their leader.

They barely got the words out before Sherlock stood up abruptly. A look of pure determination crossed his features, and he headed straight for the chained and beaten John.

John's eyes darkened with unadulterated hatred when Sherlock walked in. For years he'd been on the outskirts―watching the viking. John used to wonder if he could ever do it―could he really kill a man? He'd become a hunter of sorts, stopping attacks on villages and getting closer to his ultimate goal. When Anderson arrived John was prime for the picking. Years of stewing in his own juices translated into an easy target. John didn't even realize he was being manipulated until the viking bastards cut him open with their knives.

"I'm told you have some rather unsavory accusations about my Molly." Sherlock said, lowering his head―the light casting in such a way that Sherlock looked like Satan himself.

"Go to Hell." John grumbled.

If he was going to take Molly down it had to be believable. Sherlock had to work for it.

"You see, John," Sherlock paused for dramatic effect, "I'm not the kind of man who likes to share. If you have anything on my sweet Molly, I suggest you tell me before things get messy."

He leaned in, picking up John by the collar.

"I told you: go to Hell." He spat in Sherlock's face, and was amused by the fury he saw there.

The next few hours went by in bloody haze. John enjoyed toying with Sherlock, for every hit he'd make a snide remark about Molly. Always saying too little to confirm a relationship, but enough to leave Sherlock suspicious.

In the end it was Molly who damned herself.

She'd been waiting for Sherlock to come to bed for hours, and when she went in search of him it didn't take long for screams of a familiar voice to draw her attention.

Standing in the opening on the room, Molly's eyes raked over a beaten and destroyed John. She watched Sherlock hit him. Attack him. Destroy him. This was the monster she'd been trying to forget.

Before she could process what she was doing, her mouth spoke off.

"John." She sighed.

Sherlock froze, his back straightening to bring him to his full height.

"You know him?" he asked.

Molly ducked her head, immediately realizing her mistake.

"I'm hurt Sherlock," John sputtered, his words coming out in slurs due to the teeth Sherlock had collected from him, "I told you Molly and I go way back. You didn't believe me."

Never had Molly seen such agony cross Sherlock's features. Worse than when she'd escaped the first time, everything that made Sherlock seem human was falling away.

"It's not what you think." Molly said, her voice cautious. The next few moments could make or break what happened in this camp.

"She's right." John chimed in, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. "It's much worse."

Sherlock took the knife he was holding in his hand and temporarily inserted it in John's leg.

"Is what he said true?" Sherlock asked, forcing Molly to look into his eyes.

He seemed so fragile―almost child-like. She knew he'd stop her if she lied to him, so she had only one choice.

"I told you, all I ever wanted was to be free."

The Sherlock she'd grown to care for dissolved into nothingness. All that was left was the monster who'd tried to kidnap and manipulate her.

"You've betrayed me." His words didn't come out in an angry roar like she was accustomed to. No, his revelation was vocalized in a whisper of defeat.

Despite his pain, Molly could only thing of one thing: betrayal. How often was he going to accuse her of that? They were not in a relationship, she'd never made a commitment to him. If anything it was he who'd taken her trust. He was supposed to be deplorable. Evil. She wasn't supposed to care about him; he wasn't what she anticipated and because of that she faltered.

Instead of voicing this, Molly stuck with the one thing she knew she could do without him seeing her ulterior motives; she got angry.

"I'm your prisoner!" She yelled loud enough for the whole camp to hear. "You've been holding me captive long enough that I no longer know who I am. All I wanted was to be free; to be treated like a human being." It was true, but what he didn't know was how that had shifted in the past few weeks―not that Molly would dare admit this while he was livid with anger.

Sherlock shook his head. This girl didn't know not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was rude and dismissive to his kind gestures and he'd be sure to not to extend them any longer.

"You were never my prisoner, but now you will be." Summoning his men with a wave of his hand, Billy and Chris took hold of Molly's arms.

"Lock her away―make sure she's no where near her friend." Sherlock sneered, and turned his back to her. He'd almost thought someone had actually grown to care for him. As usual, he was wrong.

"Sherlock please, I never asked for John to attack you." Molly yelled, as the men dragged her towards the room they'd once used to keep Anderson Lestrade contained.

"You can't do this!" She thrashed and pleaded. Things were just starting to get better. "Please, I never wanted this to happen."

He shook his head, "You've sided with the enemy and now you will pay, sweetheart."

Then he left, her pleas would now fall on deaf ears.

He wanted more than anything for the looks they shared to be genuine. For her kiss to mean something. As usual he was played the fool―but no longer. If Molly wanted to play dirty, then he'd show her exactly why he was the most ruthless viking to plague the land.

Sherlock would make Molly his, even if it meant destroying everything that made her unique. She would pay for her disloyalty, and when she was done, Molly would come crawling back to him. Broken or not she would be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think of the chapter?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


	14. Gone

Three days went by without any sign of kindness, decency, or sympathy. For three days Molly was treated like cattle at Sherlock's request; she was tied up and thrown in the back of a wagon as the vikings made their way towards the sea where their ship was docked.

Molly had never heard such an eruption of joy as she had from the men of Sherlock's camp when he announced they were returning to their roots.

As for the viking himself, he hadn't so much as looked at her since the incident with John. He rode ahead on the pretense of scouting, but Molly knew better. He didn't want to see her. There was nothing she could do to rectify her situation, and as much as that hurt, she knew it was for the best; Sherlock was far too attentive when it came to her. With him gone, maybe she could slip away. If it weren't for the gag in her mouth and the chains on her legs she'd be home free.

If any good were to come out of her new situation, it would be due to the fact that Molly no longer felt confused about her feelings for Sherlock. He was a monster―she knew that now. A simple kiss meant nothing. If anything her emotions were a survival tactic put on by her subconscious, nothing more.

It's strange how quickly priorities could change, now escape seemed to be all she could think of. There was no more room for the questions that once kept her up at night, for now she was enlightened. Molly was sure imprisonment was hurting her soul, and there didn't seem to be room for much else. She'd paid only passing thought to the fate of John, making the assumption that he was already dead. Maybe she could have been a little more sympathetic, but since he'd only hurt instead of helped her she wasn't in the mood to pay him her pity. If anyone should be pitied it was her. She'd made the decision to begin falling for a monster, and now she was left with the broken pieces of her life―unfocused and completely empty.

Luckily, Molly didn't have much time to grieve her new position; for at every rock, hole, and uneven piece of ground they passed, Molly felt a jarring pain in her back as the wagon jostled her around. She was uncomfortable, unable to move, and was only allowed two bathroom breaks a day―not that she needed them, she doubted they were giving her enough water to keep a cactus alive.

This went on for two more days, before Sherlock circled back to intersect his men.

"The ship will be ready in the morn, for now rest." He declared, making sure to keep his gaze from Molly.

Some might interpret this as weakness, but even so he couldn't let himself see her suffer. She needed to understand that she hurt him; she needed to learn. Molly couldn't keep pushing him without any regards for the consequences. He was not a man to be trifled with and his love needed to see that.

In order for them to be together, Molly needed to break. In Sherlock's mind, there was something glorious in Molly, something just below the surface. The only way for her to reach her true potential was not to grow, as others might think, but rather to shatter the conception of who she once was.

In a year's time it wouldn't matter that for a few weeks she'd gone without, because she would see the world in a grander way. Molly would be his and he wouldn't have to worry. The temporary discomfort she felt now was a measly price to pay for perfection.

Unfortunately, not all of the men in Sherlock's camp saw it this way. They'd seen pieces of Molly―her strength and her heart―and there were those who disagreed with the way their leader was acting. He was known for cruelty, but even to the worst offenders Sherlock had awarded the mercy of death. Molly would receive no such gift.

Among the men who'd begun to question Sherlock was Ray. He'd been in charge of the cart toting Molly, and after five days of treating her like garbage he decided to speak up on her behalf―a suicide mission if there ever was one.

In the years Jefferson worked under Sherlock, he never dared to question the man. Sherlock Holmes wasn't supposed to have good morals, and in his own way he was consistent. Jefferson might not have been happy about his predicament, but he'd always done whatever it took to survive. That was until his leader took an unusual interest in a lithe blonde who had a tinkling laugh similar to a ghost of Ray's past.

"I think the lady needs to be cleaned up." Jefferson said, his voice low as to not draw attention to his suggestion. It was important that, if Sherlock agreed, the camp did not know his decision was influenced by the unwarranted request of an underling. The whole camp knew Sherlock's orders went unquestioned, and when he said Molly was to be treated as any other prisoner, he meant it.

"You should know better than anyone not to challenge me." Sherlock growled, glaring at Jefferson before looking at Molly for the first time.

Her back was straight and her chin held high, but there was dirt covering almost every inch of her. Her bones shone through as the dehydration caused her skin to cling like rags. Molly looked haggard and beaten, but one need only look into her eyes to realize that she was far from destroyed.

"Take her to the stream down the hill. Make sure she looks presentable." Sherlock said, trying to remain as indifferent as he could.

Jefferson turned around, fighting the smile that dared to creep up his face, that was until Sherlock added, "bring her to me when you're done."

He swallowed. Alone time with Sherlock was the last thing Molly needed, and Jefferson feared she would be compromise. After everything there was still a goodness in her that should not be corrupted by this camp.

 

Untying her, Jefferson tried to refrain from making eye contact. Placing a hand on her lower back he began to lead her to a place where she could get cleaned up.

"Thank you." Molly whispered, her voice hoarse from the days of abuse.

"Not all of us are impulsive monsters, Molly." He said, staring up at the sky above, wondering just what his life had come to.

"No, you're not." She replied sadly, trying to keep her tears contained.

Try as she might, there was a whisper of betrayal that stung her heart. Sherlock's allegations against her were of a most hypocritical nature. He'd explicitly sworn to never hurt her, and now she was relying on the kindness of man who'd rather endure needles to his skin rather than hold a pleasant conversation with her.

Jefferson was being kind beyond reason, he even walked slowly along her side to catch her if she fell, which was likely since the days without movement had left Molly's limbs brittle and sore.

After awhile she decided to gamble on Jefferson's sudden act of benevolence, and poke around at the truth that surrounded her imminent fate.

"What happened to John?" Molly's voice shook and she looked at him with fear in her eyes.

It wasn't that she cared much for John―he was the reason she was currently suffering―she just couldn't help but hope that, whatever the case may be, the same fate would not befall her.

"He was left chained to a tree in the old camp." he grimaced at his lack of tact and sent a worried look Molly's way. In all reality if she'd been anyone else, they would have left her right beside John to meet an untimely end.

"So he's dead." Molly bluntly stated.

Jefferson merely nodded.

They continued down the small hill, Jefferson supporting most of Molly's weight. The lack of sleep, water, and the continuous stress of not knowing what was to come had destroyed whatever strength she once had. Were it not for the arm slung around her waist, Molly would've had no hope of getting off the wagon let alone making it all the way to the stream.

"Why did you decide to help me?" Molly asked. No one had ever come to her aid out of pure good will. With Greg it had always been an obligation and with John it was a ploy to bring Sherlock down. What could Jefferson possibly want from her?

"You remind me of someone." Jefferson said in a dismissive tone.

 

In truth he would have been kinder to a lady in such a dire situation, if it weren't for her resemblance to a beloved sister. The gods only knew how much it would pain Jefferson to go through losing a sibling all over again―and in an effort to remain detached he'd been rude and neglectful. Molly deserved better, and he was ashamed that he was only just now deciding to assist her.

Molly let out a harsh laugh, "let me guess, Sherlock took someone from you too."

She was beginning to believe all men had the same story: they wanted, the lost, they abused.

Jefferson smiled and shook his head, "no, she died of natural causes―if that's what you're asking."

"Oh." Feeling awkward from her sudden outburst, she shifted her weight uncomfortably. She was expecting yet another tale of revenge, but somehow something as simple and uneventful as a natural death seemed even more tragic.

"Do you want to talk about her?"

"Not particularly." he said dismissively, and Molly let out a light laugh.

"Of course you don't." Ray never wanted to talk about anything. Ever. What made her think he'd change now?

They continued the rest of the way in a comfortable silence. Jefferson's strong build brought her comfort and, though he reeked of alcohol, he still made her feel safe. Just knowing someone was out there who was willing to protect her brought a temporary serenity to Molly's mind.

When they finally came to the stream, Molly dropped to her knees, taking in the cold water.

"Would you mind…" she trailed off her cheeks burning red.

He nodded, and turned around, allowing Molly to undress.

"Sherlock wants me to take you to him when your done." He informed her.

Molly froze, "I don't want to see him." More than that she couldn't see him.

He let out a sigh, "It's not like I have much of a choice." He'd never had.

"No, I supposed you wouldn't." Molly mussed.

It appeared Sherlock did not just use controlling and manipulative tactics on her, but on his men as well. They were afraid of him; a fact that took her weeks to pick up on. He was an all powerful overlord and they were just there to make their way. Molly was certain some of them very much enjoyed their barbaric way of life, but more often than not she detected an air of resentment. Not that it was really any of her business.

Even with the similarities between Molly and Sherlock's men, she couldn't go back there―even if she wasn't as alone as she originally anticipated. Looking around Molly realized this could be her last chance. She knew it was a long shot, but why not? It wasn't like she was receiving the bear necessities in her current predicament and if she died alone in the woods it was sure to be less painful than the plan Sherlock had concocted.

Pulling her dress back up―and making sure not to alert him that she was no longer intent on bathing―Molly picked up a nearby branch and took a deep breath. Using whatever strength her body still had available, she knocked it upside Jefferson's head―just as Anderson had done to the kids fighting in the village square.

She was surprised, and relieved, when he immediately dropped to the ground, seemingly unconscious.

Then she did the obvious thing. Molly ran. She ran far and she ran fast. And Jefferson watched her go.

A supposedly wise man once told Jefferson to find the one thing he wanted and to take it. Let the costs be damned. That man was Sherlock. For years Jefferson'd pondered: what could he, the child of a simple farmer, possibly want? His life had been destroyed and it seemed all dreams were unobtainable. It wasn't until Molly graced their horrid camp that Jefferson figured out what it was that he yearned for.

He wanted to be good. And after all the bad he'd done―giving her a chance at life was the least he could do.

Covering up her tracks, he staged the scene. Made it out to be that she'd ran North instead of South. He left broken branches scattered around the floor, and when he was thoroughly satisfied with the job, Jefferson removed the knife from his bag. Making a small incision on his upper arm, he used his blood to paint a more convincing picture―to make it seem like Molly's attack could have actually debilitated him.

In all reality he could have left too. Freedom was something he only dreamed of, and on the surface he deserved it far more than she. He'd lost just as many people and had been under Sherlock's command for years, but there was something he no longer possessed that he'd need. Innocence. Molly, though hardened by years of obvious abuse, was still full of a kind of brightness that could light up an abysmal tunnel. He had seen too much; perhaps he could leave someday, but only after he'd healed from the pain his life had brought him.

Making this decision wasn't easy, but he knew he had to stay. He would make sure Sherlock never got anywhere near Molly. There would be consequences because she got away, but he could bear this burden if it gave Molly a greater chance at a better life. Perhaps he'd die for this mistake, but if he ran Sherlock would hunt him down and his death would be definite.

Trudging up to the camp, Jefferson doubted that he was ready. It was a terrifying and lonely thing to bear Sherlock's rage. Jefferson's only strength came from knowing he had to be willing to provide whatever sacrifice necessary to cleanse himself of his sins.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked, not bother to look up from his book.

Jefferson bowed his head, trying his best to look ashamed, "the lady got away."

Sherlock laughed, looking up and giving his trademarks smirk, "you're lucky I'm in a good mood, mate." Standing he stalked over to loom over him, "Now where is she?"

Jefferson avoided eye contact, shrinking inside his frame. He should have known Sherlock would think he was joking.

"She hit me over the head―I'm sorry boss, I couldn't catch her."

In an instant Sherlock drew his sword and had it up against jefferson's throat. "You've dealt with men thrice her size with skills to make them a deadly match for an entire army, yet you let Molly―my Molly―get away."

"I underestimated her." he said, allowing his voice to shake. This needed to be believable, though it helped that Jefferson was terrified of Sherlock.

Sherlock was breathing heavy. He needed her. He was going to win her, maybe not by the best means, but she was going to be his. She couldn't leave now―not when he was so close.

"Take me to where the girl overpowered you." He demanded, deciding to leave Jefferson's punishment for later.

Little did Sherlock know she was already gone.

* * *

 

Molly learned quickly from the mistakes of her previous attempt―this time she wouldn't stop until the girl she once was died. She needed to become something else―someone else.

She stumbled through those trees. Whatever signs she left behind didn't matter―even if she tried to hide her tracks Sherlock would be able to find her. She needed distance. Space between her and the monster was the only thing that would save her.

Molly had thought that he might have a tiny part of his frozen heart that cared about her. She thought that she might have been able to change him. It took her losing everything in order to see clearly. Whatever she and Sherlock could have been, it wasn't for this life.

 

This life, she would choose herself. She wouldn't bend to his―or any other's―will again. Her only goal now was to live, and by this she meant more than the petty survival she'd been striving for the past few years.

Molly ran until there was nothing left, until her legs collapsed and her heart felt weak. She ran until there was nothing to hope for but the peace of exhaustion.

Collapsing in the middle of a large path, and she didn't awaken until the sound of horses drew her from her comatose.

Fearing that Sherlock had found her so soon after her departure, Molly tried to duck into the nearby shrubbery. Her attempts at hiding were proven fruitless when the horses gallop ceased and a kind voice asked if she was all right.

Molly rolled to her side, peaking at the stranger through her messy curls. He offered her a weak smile―his clean dark hair and wellado attire suggesting he was someone of a higher status than she'd ever been accustomed to.

"Miss, are you all right?" He asked again. Molly suppressed the urge to roll her eyes―she was beaten, battered, covered in mud and bruises, and this man had the audacity to ask if she was all right.

Unsure if she'd be able to speak, Molly simply shook her head.

"Can you stand?" He asked, moving to help her if needed. When she shook her head again, he took her arm and brought her to an upright position.

Giving her a thorough once over, the man came to a conclusion. Squeezing her hand, he said "I will bring you to my home, where we can fetch you a physician." She nodded, stunned at the kindness of a complete stranger.

"Do you have a name Miss?" He asked.

Molly cleared her throat, cringing at how painfully dry it was from the complete lack of water. This was the very moment she'd been in need of―she could change her life right here and now and no one would be the wiser. There was no one left who cared enough about her to search for her―to see if she was well. Sherlock destroyed everything, allowing her the chance to rebuild. Now it was no longer a question of what, but rather who'd she become.

"Clara Andrews." She declared, before thinking better of it and correcting herself, "Lady Clara Andrews."

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.   
> I'm back.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.   
> Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.   
>  I don´t own Sherlock.   
> A hug, have a good day

****

**_ Eighteen Months Later: _ **

There were things in Molly's life that she would come to regret. She'd rue the day she approached Anderson. She regretted the times she avoided her father's advice. She wished she spent more time with the people she loved before her village went up in flames.

One thing she could never seem to look ill on would be the day she transformed into Lady Clara Andrews. It was a stretch, but not by much. She integrated her lies with pieces of the truth, and through the pity of those who'd found her, Molly—or rather Clara—was invited to stay indefinitely at Lord Luke's estate.

There was a reason for everything and never had Molly believed that more than the moment her father's tedious lessons became of use.

"Even without status, a young lady should always strive for gentle perfection." William would scold her.

It was through this that she'd been educated enough to pass for a lower noble women. A woman who could read was a fair feat indeed, and her companions did not question it. With a shiver, Molly could still recall the day Thomas asked her about her supposed past.

"Lady Clara," Lucas bowed as she entered his study. Molly clumsily reciprocated the gesture, still slightly too weak to stand on her own.

Motioning for her to take a seat, Molly warily watched as Lucas poured himself a drink.

"It seems you've suffered a great deal, love." He remarked, looking at her like he would a bird with a broken wing.

Molly grimaced. His diction being one too similar to the man she'd just escaped from.

"Perhaps now is a time you should be with family, I could write to them—if you wished."

She shook her head, and hastily refused his offer. "That won't be necessary, thank you."

Lucas was shocked, a girl without family was to be labeled a harlot. Surely, this Clara could not be so dense. "I'm afraid that I must insist." He declared.

"My parents are no longer with us." Molly said, looking out the window at the lovely gardens just beyond her reach. How she longed to enjoy the sunshine.

"My apologies." Lucas mumbled, dumbfounded.

There was no grief in this girl. Only pain. She seemed so lost, like her soul was off wandering outside of her body.

"What happened to you?" He asked. Perhaps the question came out before he thought to speak, but for the life of him, Lucas seemed to be at a complete loss as to why any lady should find herself so broken and with no family to call her own.

Then Molly spun her lies.

She told Lucas that she'd been taking a walk in her family estate when Sherlock Holmes kidnapped her—holding her for ransom against her family. When they did not pay, for it was twice as much as they could dream of being able to afford at the time, Sherlock killed them and kept her as his spoils. Her tale was tragic and sadly based in truth. Thankfully, Lucas accepted it quickly.

"Is there anyone who can account for you?" He'd asked, hoping to find her some comfort.

Molly shook her head, "I am afraid that I'm completely and utterly alone." She fought back the tears that wanted to escape. Never had she been so vulnerable before a stranger.

"That's where you're wrong, I will make sure all is well, Clara. You have no need to worry."

All did turn out well. Molly took to the land of civility easier than those who were born into it. The men of court adored her, and she loved how they loved her. Lucas warned her that if she went about the way she did, Molly would end up married by the fall and he was unsure of whether or not he'd be able to let her go.

He'd come to love her like a sister and, having no relations of his own, he brought her into his life as the family he'd desired for so long.

"We will call you my cousin," Lucas decided a few weeks into her stay at his estate, "this way no scandal will come upon you for being in my home."

He'd done everything he could to protect her.

Though try as he may, no man would be able to keep the never ending onslaught of suitors gone for long.

Of them, Molly's favorite was a kind man named Tom. He had a man in his attendance, Jesse, who went out of his way to be courteous to the lady, and together the two made her feel at peace. The house was not of a high enough birth to be fitting of a girl who was supposedly Lord Luke's cousin, but it was enough for a small villager who only wanted someone to care for her like the sun does the moon.

Three months into Molly and Tom's courtship was when the letters arrived. They were elegant and wonderful in all the ways Tom could never be. They talked of far off places and daring legends, but Molly knew nothing of their sender.

In the beginning she'd thought it was Sherlock—that he'd found her and was now sending letters to threaten her. Molly found herself quite unable to open the envelope and it wasn't until she heard Lucas talking about a great killer, known as the Viking, terrorizing the heathens in France that she had the confidence to read its contents. Having Sherlock so far away gave Molly the clearance she needed to satisfy her curiosity.

Quickly, she tore the letters apart, and once she read them Molly came to laugh at the idea that Sherlock could have ever written them. The words were gentle and soft—lovely in the most proper of ways. Never could a ruthless beast such as Sherlock write such things.

 Unfortunately, Molly's secret admirer never revealed his identity. Though Molly liked to fancy she knew him; that he would sweep her away before Tom could make his proposal.

Crawling into her room, which overlooked the gardens she loved so much, Molly slit open her newest letter. Her heart alight with the prospect of hearing more of her secret friend's tales of cultures she could only dream of.

**_ Dearest Clara, _ **

_I must confess that the past couple months have been the most exhilarating correspondence I've ever had in my life. There are few women in the world who could possibly capture my heart by mere words, and you've accomplished this task._

_There is not much time for me to write this letter, I'm afraid the world is not as stable as it once was. The ground is moving beneath my feet and I fear that there are monsters lurking, though they no longer confine themselves only to the dark. It's far more dangerous out there than you could ever know._

_It is my impression that you believe you've witnessed evil, and in many ways I would bet you'd be right. You have the kind of strength that only comes from trials of the soul._

_We can thank the heavens, though, that you have only known the evils of man. For there is an entirely different breed of beast out there, the kind whose heart is in the clutches of Lucifer. We cannot hope that he will not try to harm us, only that we are strong enough to bear it._

_I do not know when, or if, I will ever be able to write to you again. Just know that you have brought light to my_ darkness when there was no hope of ever casting a shadow again.

Fondly,

**_Your Admirer_ **

Never had his letters been so short. Normally they went on for pages illustrating great beauty. She'd come to know him in such a way that was more intimate than anything so trivial as a name. There were times when he'd draw her pictures of the sights he'd seen, and she kept each and every one on the stand beside her bed.

Skimming his words again to see if he'd given any clue as to where she might be able to send her response, she was about to give up when she noticed a small piece of parchment, sloppy and ripped, lying on the covers of her bed.

Sighing, she picked it up. He was known for adding afterthoughts, and this one would be no different.

** Clara, **

_The world has turned upside down, and in a month's time all will be gone. I need to meet you, at least once, before I am greeted with my end. Find me at the masquerade ball at the Whitmore estate that is to be held a fortnight from now. I will be the man in silver._

_Fondly,_

**_Your Admirer_ **

The handwriting was messier than Molly had ever seen it, but it didn't matter. For weeks she'd wanted nothing but to meet him, and as always his timing was impeccable. For, it was rumored that Mr. Whitmore would announce his engagement at his annual Masquerade ball. If Molly were ever to seriously consider Tom's potential request, then she would have to meet the man who'd managed to carve out her heart with just paper and a pen. If only to settle the questions of what it might be to look upon the face of someone who seemed to truly care for who she was, rather than who she could be.

How a man so cultured and kind could find beauty in a girl so shattered, she would never know.

Quickly sitting up, Molly exited her room in search of Lucas. She needed to be fitted for the ball immediately.

* * *

 

 

As she tore about the house, Jefferson watched her from his spot in the gardens. She was so happy and her peace brought him a sense of what joy could feel like.

Molly did not know he was there, in fact she had little to no clue that he was the reason she was now walking free.

The less she knew of his involvement the better. It was clear that Molly received a sense of pride knowing she escaped on her own, and far be it from him to ruin that for her.

It didn't take long for the skilled Viking to find her, and he visited whenever he could. Always checking. Always making sure she was all right. In a sense he'd become her guardian angel, keeping her safe and fending off the devil, or in this case, Sherlock Holmes.

On his way back to the horse he'd stolen, Jeffersoj heard a rumbling behind him, and before he knew it he was face to face with deep brown eyes.

"How long have you known where she was?" Michael asked, his tone casual, but his eyes held a mirth and an air of victory.

Sherlock had collected Michael while they were down south. The young man had great potential, but was all too ready to please his leader. At every turn Michael was trying to one-up Sherlock's other men, but never was he able to surpass Jefferson. This infuriated the man more than anything else. He would never fail Sherlock, yet that seemed to be the only thing Jefferson was capable of doing.

"Where who was?" Jefferson asked. Playing dumb had gotten him this far in life, he wasn't about to change his tactic now.

Jefferson was not nearly as stupid or dense as others seemed to believe. He knew what the men of Sherlock's camp thought of him. Knew they deemed him to be a disloyal coward; but this could no longer bother Jefferson, because for the first time in his life he'd pledged his allegiance to someone worthy. Someone whose goodness and heart outdid all that came before.

Michael laughed, "how the mighty have fallen! Imagine who will be on top once Sherlock discovers your involvement in the loss of his greatest treasure."

An inhuman growl erupted from Jefferson's lips. This young insolent boy was ambitious to the point of damnation. "Molly deserves better, if you've ever had a heart you will let her be."

Sauntering towards Jefferson, like the king he thought he was, Michael declared, "It's already been done."

In truth it had bed done long ago. Jefferson'd led Michael to Molly months prior to this confrontation, and soon thereafter he told Sherlock of the man's betray. They watched him, and Sherlock did everything he could to capture Molly in a more permanent way.

Little did Jefferson know that not only had he been leading the men right to her, but he'd also given Sherlock the idea on which he would build his new tactic for collecting Molly.

When she first left him, Sherlock was ready to scorch the Earth in search of her. Upon the discovery of her whereabouts, he stormed to where she lived, ready to drag her out by the hair if necessary, but he froze when he came across the light that she now carried with her. Since the moment Sherlock met Molly he knew there was a greatness in her, that she could be the sun that ended his night, but never had he been able to reach the beautiful potential that Molly carried within herself.

He should have known that Molly would discover it in her own independence. In her freedom, she studied everything from mathematics and philosophy to tapestry and housekeeping. There was nothing she wouldn't master, and with Lucas by her side she'd grown into the most accomplished young lady in the shortest time allowed. This was where she found her light, from her own growth and a love of learning.

It was after seeing this that Sherlock thought back to a conversation he'd had with Jefferson shortly after she'd gone missing.

Both drunk on booze, it was no wonder Jefferson felt the need to give out his seasoned love advice.

"You have to woo a lady," he asserted, his drunkenness causing his words to slur.

"Not if she has betray me." Sherlock grumbled. Drunk or not he was still furious.

"Do you want her dead or in your bed?" Jefferson giggled at his own crude rhyme.

"I haven't decided." Sherlock lied. As much as he might want to, he could never bring himself to harm Molly.

"Then you have to woo her." Jefferson nodded his head in affirmation with his own statement, "Men are kept easily enough with sex, but women—" Jefferson shook his head, "women are skilled in matters of the heart."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Jefferson: the romantic poet. If only the man who was the closest thing he had to a friend could see things his way.

"I know you probably want to train her, but ladies require more than that. Especially a spitfire like what you got there."

Sighing, Sherlock gave in. "And how do you know this, mate?" He asked, laughing as Jefferson almost slipped from his spot in an effort to elaborate.

"My baby sister had the whole village fighting for her hand. Each one wanted to give her the world, but she always said no." Looking up at the stars, Jefferson fought the sudden sadness that came about from talking about his beloved sister, "one day I asked her, why don't you ever say yes? And you know what she told me?" Jefferson asked, looking earnestly at Sherlock.

His companion shook his head.

"She told me that if they wanted to give her the world, they'd have to start by giving their heart."

"Love is a weakness." Sherlock growled, taking a sip from his drink.

Jefferson stood, ready to take his leave. Talking about his sister didn't make him feel any better about his loss, but if Sherlock wasn't going to take his advice seriously then he need not give it.

"Perhaps, but you wouldn't have spent the last few months grieving her presence, if she hadn't carried off with her a part of your heart."

Wooing ended up being far more difficult than he originally anticipated. First Sherlock had to find her, and after a year it seemed too coincidental to be true. Who would have thought that the ready-to-please Michael would be the one to lead Sherlock exactly where he needed to go.

It was so clear Sherlock couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before: Jefferson was the reason Molly escaped. More than just her getting away; the man had helped her. She could never have overpowered him, not in the condition she was when she stumbled off from his camp. She was far too battered.

Jefferson let her go.

It took everything Sherlock had not to kill Jefferson the moment he found out, but in the end he was able to restrain himself. Jefferson became a tool that Sherlock used to learn everything about his beloved.

He soon discovered that she look on the name Lady Clara Andrews, and spent her days with a new family in the form of a man named Lucas. The two became close and it was clear that this man would do anything for Molly.

This brought up a jealousy in Sherlock, and that was when he wrote the first letter.

His original intent was for Lucas to intercept it and assume Molly was having an affair outside of whatever relationship the two had concocted.

Imagine Sherlock's surprise when he received a letter back within the next couple days, not from an enraged lover, but from the young beauty who had slipped through his fingers all those months ago.

Through their correspondence, Sherlock learned what it meant to truly seduce a woman. No matter where he and his men were currently plundering, Sherlock always found himself on the verge of writing out a sonnet to his Molly, telling her just how much he missed her.

He'd never forget the day he first read Molly's admission of exactly how she felt towards him.

**_ Dear Admirer, _ **

_I must apologize that this letter will be rather brief, Lucas is requiring I go out riding with him. And while I love the horses, I do not much fancy the bruises I receive when I come tumbling to the ground._

_I just felt like you must know how much your letters turn my heart upside down. You make me feel like there is a world out there that will welcome my rather than abhor me._

_To you I owe my new sense of being._

_Yours Truly,_

**_Clara Andrews_ **

Just once Sherlock wanted Molly to write her real name, to see the way her calligraphy would caress the letters of her name, but alas his wish was never granted.

When the time was right, Sherlock gave Michael permission to confront Jefferson. For now he was ready to taking things with Molly to the next level.

He would have to apologize, but if he succeeded then his letters would not have been for nothing.

Yes, to Sherlock the words he wrote seemed like the perfect solution, and to the alliance working against him they served a similar purpose.

 

* * *

 

 

Anderson was not one to work completely solo, after months of digging he found the one man who hated Sherlock more than any other: Jim Moriarty.

It took a an entire year, but together they came up with a flawless plan. No more crazy men grieving for a wife long dead. This was the time for the true masters to go to work. And work they did.

In a few weeks Molly would take the bait and when she went out to meet her beloved in silver, she'd be ambushed and dragged to the slaughter.

It was a barbaric idea, but it was a necessary evil if they were ever going to destroy Sherlock Holmes. To them, this young girl would become nothing more than collateral damage.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think?  
> In the next chapter: Seven minutes in heaven.  
> Any suggestions for for new situations?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.

**Author's Note:**

> TBC…  
> I hope you are with me in this story. There is a fun trip to tell.  
> What do you think of the chapter?  
> If you take the time to read, please take time to comment.  
> Feel free to let me know what you think. Questions, suggestions, opinions, anything goes.  
> Kisses and hugs.


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